“I’m not interested in being a hero. I just cannot justify spending the time. Believe me, I’ve got enough to worry about.”

  “Sure you do, but you can cooperate and make my job easier. I’m just searching for the truth here, Sheriff.”

  “I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

  “That’s all I ask, for now anyway.”

  He takes a deep breath, still unconvinced and definitely uncommitted to the cause. “Anything else?”

  “Well there is one other matter, another possible piece of the puzzle. Are you familiar with the death of Kenny Taft? Happened about two years after the murder?”

  “Sure. He was the last officer killed on duty. His photo is hanging on the wall out there.”

  “I’d like to see the case file without having to go through the Freedom of Information Act and all that crap.”

  “And you think it was somehow related to Quincy Miller?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m just digging, Sheriff. That’s what I do, and there are always surprises along the way.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FIRE CHIEF is a potbellied, grizzled old veteran who goes by Lieutenant Jordan and is not nearly as friendly as the sheriff. Things are slow around the firehouse two blocks off Main Street. Two of his men polish a shiny pumper in the driveway, and inside an ancient secretary fiddles with paperwork on her desk. Jordan eventually appears, and after a brief round of forced pleasantries leads me to a cramped room with banks of 1940s-style file cabinets. For a moment he searches through history and finds the drawer for 1988. He opens it, flips through a row of dingy files, finds what I’m after and pulls it out.

  “Not much of a fire, as I recall,” he says as he places it on the table. “Help yourself.” He leaves the room.

  Back then, the sheriff’s office was several blocks away in an old building that has since been razed. In Ruiz County, as in hundreds of other places, it was not at all unusual to store crime scene evidence anywhere there happened to be an empty space or closet. I’ve crawled through courthouse attics and suffocating basements in search of old records.

  To alleviate the shortage of storage space, Pfitzner used a portable shed behind his office. In the file there is a black-and-white photo of it before the fire, and a heavy padlock on the only door is visible. There were no windows. I estimate it was thirty feet long, twelve feet wide, eight feet in height. A photo taken after the fire shows nothing but charred rubble.

  The first alarm came at 3:10 a.m. and the firemen found the shed fully engulfed. The fire was extinguished in a matter of minutes with nothing salvageable. Its cause is listed as “Unknown.”

  As Jordan said, it wasn’t much of a fire. The flashlight found in Quincy’s trunk was apparently destroyed. No trace was found. Conveniently, the autopsy reports, witness statements, diagrams, and photos were safely locked away inside Pfitzner’s desk. He had what he needed to convict Quincy Miller.

  For the moment, the fire is a dead end.

  19

  I call Carrie and Buck once a week to check on them. They realize I’m not going away and are slowly coming around. I repeatedly assure her that she runs no risks by cooperating with me, and we establish a level of trust.

  We meet in a coffee shop near Kingsport and eat omelets. She reads the affidavit Mazy has prepared, then Buck goes through it slowly. I answer the same questions about what happens next and so on, and after an hour of gentle cajoling she signs it.

  In the parking lot, I give her a hug and Buck wants one too. We’re trusted pals now and I thank them for having the courage to help Quincy. Through tears, she asks me to ask him to forgive her. It’s already done, I reply.

  * * *

  —

  MY MOTHER INHERITED the family farm near Dyersburg, Tennessee, my hometown. Mom is seventy-three and has lived by herself since Dad died two years ago. I worry about her because of her age, though she is healthier than me and not at all lonely. She worries about me because of my nomadic lifestyle and absence of a serious romantic relationship. She has grudgingly accepted the reality that starting a family is not one of my priorities and I am not likely to produce more grandchildren. My sister has given her three but they live far away.

  She doesn’t eat animals and is sustained by the land. Her garden is legendary and could feed hundreds, and in fact does. She hauls baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables to the local food bank. We dine on tomatoes stuffed with rice and mushrooms, thick butterbeans, and a squash casserole. In spite of the abundance, she eats like a bird and drinks nothing but tea and water. She is fit and spry and refuses to take pills, and as she pushes her vegetables around her plate she encourages me to eat more. She is concerned about my lack of weight, but I wave her off. I hear this from others.

  Afterwards, we sit on the front porch and drink mint tea. Little has changed on the porch since my convalescence many years ago, and we talk about those dark days. We also talk about Brooke, my ex. They were fond of each other and kept in touch for years. Mom was angry with her at first for leaving me during my breakdown, but I finally convinced her that our split had been inevitable on our wedding day. Brooke married an entrepreneur who has done well. They have four children, beautiful teenagers, and Mom gets a bit wistful when she thinks about what might have been. As soon as I get an opening, I move the conversation in another direction.

  In spite of my unconventional lifestyle, Mom is proud of what I do, though she understands little about the criminal justice system. She finds it depressing that there is so much crime, so many people imprisoned, so many broken families. It has taken me years to convince her that there are thousands of innocent people locked away. This is our first chance to talk about Quincy Miller and she loves getting the details. A murdered lawyer, a crooked sheriff, a drug cartel, an innocent man perfectly framed. She can’t believe it at first and relishes the story. I don’t worry about telling her too much. We are, after all, sitting on a dark porch in rural Tennessee, far away from Florida, and who would she tell anyway? I can trust my mom to keep secrets.

  We go through each of my other clients: Shasta Briley on death row in North Carolina, convicted of arson that killed her three daughters; Billy Rayburn in Tennessee, convicted by the dubious science of what has become known as the Shaken Baby Syndrome after he tripped and fell while holding his girlfriend’s baby; Duke Russell, still on death row in Alabama; Curtis Wallace, convicted in Mississippi of the abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman he never met; and Little Jimmy Flagler, who was seventeen and mentally retarded when Georgia locked him away for life.

  These six cases are my life and career. I live with them every day and I often tire of thinking and talking about them. I ease the conversation back to Mom and ask how her poker game is going. She plays once a week with a group of lady friends, and though the stakes are small it’s cutthroat competition. She’s currently up $11.50. They settle their debts at Christmas with a party where they break bad and consume alcohol—cheap champagne. With another group she plays bridge twice a month, but she prefers poker. She is in two book clubs—one with church ladies and they stick to theology, and the other with looser friends who prefer popular fiction. Sometimes even trash. She teaches a Sunday School class, reads to seniors at a retirement home, and volunteers with more nonprofits than she can name. She just bought an electric car and explains in detail what makes it run.

  Several times each year, Frankie Tatum stops by for dinner. They are close friends and she loves cooking for him. He was here last week and she talks about his visit. She is quite proud of the fact that he would still be locked away if not for me. This shifts the conversation back to my work. At one time she wanted me to get through this phase and move on to a more sustainable career, maybe in a real law firm, but those conversations are over. Her pensions provide a comfortable life, she does not do debt, and she sends Guardian a small check each month.

  She goes to bed promptly at ten o’clock and sleeps for eight uninterrupted hours. She leaves me on the porch, with a kiss on the head, and I sit wide-eyed for hours on this cool, quiet night and think of my clients sleeping on cramped bunks and cots behind bars.

  Innocent people.

  20

  Acting on a tip, the guards raided Zeke Huffey’s cell a month ago and found a shank, a homemade knife. Drugs are routinely found in raids and are dealt with casually. But a weapon is a serious offense because it is such a threat to the guards. Zeke is spending time in the Cave, an underground unit used to punish offenders with solitary confinement. His dreams of being paroled early are gone. Instead, he’ll serve additional time.

  I’m met at a front office by a man in a suit, a deputy warden of some variety, and, along with a guard, I’m whisked through security and led to a building away from the prisoners’ units. The deputy warden nods and frowns and doors open immediately. The right strings are being pulled. I walk down some concrete stairs and into a square, damp, windowless room. Zeke is waiting, in a metal chair with leg irons locked to the floor. There is no partition between us. His hands are free, and after a momentary shock of seeing me, he offers a limp handshake.

  When the guard leaves and slams the door, Zeke asks, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for a visit, Zeke. I’ve missed you.”

  He grunts and can’t think of a response. Residents of the Cave are not allowed visitors. I pull out a pack of cigarettes and ask, “Want a smoke?”

  “Hell yes!” he says, suddenly the addict again. I hand him one and notice his shaking hands. I light it with a match. He closes his eyes and sucks hard in a mighty effort to consume it with one fierce pull. He blows a cloud at the ceiling and hits it again. After three, he flicks ashes on the floor and manages a smile.

  “How’d you get in here, Post? This hole is off-limits.”

  “I know. Got a friend down in Little Rock.”

  He burns it down to the filter, thumps the butt against the wall, says, “How ’bout another one?”

  I light another cigarette. He is pale and gaunt, even thinner than the last time I saw him, and he has a new tattoo across his throat. The nicotine calms him and most of the shaking stops. I say, “They plan to add a few months to your time here, Zeke. Pretty stupid, hiding a shank like that.”

  “Most of what I do can be classified as stupid, Post. You know that. Smart people don’t live like this.”

  “True. Quincy Miller is a smart guy, Zeke, and he’s been locked away for a long time because of you. It’s time to set the boy free, don’t you think?”

  We’ve swapped a few letters since my last visit, and Guardian sent another small check. However, from the tone of his correspondence he is not ready to admit he lied. He considers himself to be in charge of our fragile relationship and will manipulate it from every angle.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Post. It was a long time ago. Not sure I remember all the details.”

  “I have the details here in an affidavit, Zeke. One I want you to sign. Remember an old pal named Shiner? Another junkie you served time with in Georgia?”

  He smiles and replies, “Sure, I remember Shiner. What a loser.”

  “And he remembers you. We found him near Atlanta and he’s doing okay. Much better than you. Got himself cleaned up and so far has stayed out of trouble. We have an affidavit signed by him in which he says the two of you often bragged about your careers as jailhouse informants. Says you laughed about Quincy Miller. And the Preston kid in Dothan, still serving time. And Shiner says you always got a kick out of your performance in a murder trial in Gulfport, Kelly Morris, now serving life because of you. We’ve verified these cases, Zeke, read the transcripts with your testimony. Shiner is telling the truth, for a change.”

  He glares at me, flicks more ashes. “So what?”

  “So, it’s time for you to come clean and help Quincy. It’s no skin off your balls, Zeke. You’re not going anywhere. As I’ve said before several times, the folks in Florida forgot about you a long time ago. They couldn’t care less if you now admit you lied about Quincy.”

  He thumps the remainder of number two and asks for number three. I light it for him. He pulls hard, adds to the fog above our heads, says, sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Post, I’m worried about my reputation.”

  “Very funny, but I wouldn’t waste much time worrying about that. I have a deal for you, Zeke, one that will last for fifteen minutes then disappear forever. As I said, I have a friend down in Little Rock, one with some clout, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. No one in the Cave gets visits, right? So the deal goes something like this. Arkansas plans to add an additional six months to your time, punishment for the shank. That adds up to another twenty-one months in this dump. My friend can make it go away, all but three months. A year and a half can vanish into thin air. All you have to do is sign the affidavit.”

  He puffs, flicks, stares at me in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “And why would I be kidding? You do what you should do anyway, as a decent human being, something you’re not and we both know it, and Quincy gets a break.”

  “Ain’t no judge gonna let him out just because I come along twenty years later and say I lied, Post. Come on.”

  “Let me worry about that. Every piece of evidence helps in these cases, Zeke. You probably don’t remember a witness named Carrie Holland. She lied too, but the difference is that she now has the guts to admit it. I have her affidavit if you’d like to see it. A woman with courage, Zeke. It’s time to man up, big boy, and tell the truth for a change.”

  “You know, Post, I was just starting to like you.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not that likeable and really don’t care. My mission is to untangle the web of lies that convicted Quincy. You want eighteen months knocked off or not?”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “The word ‘trust’ doesn’t sound right coming from you, Zeke. I’m an honest man. I don’t lie. I guess you’ll just have to roll the dice.”

  “Give me another.”

  I light the fourth cigarette. He is calm now, calculating, says, “This deal. Can you put it in writing?”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way. Every prison in Arkansas is overcrowded and the state needs some relief. The county jails are backed up, some sleeping six to a cell, and the powers that be are looking for space. They don’t care what happens to you.”

  “You got that right.”

  I glance at my watch. “They promised me thirty minutes, Zeke. Time’s about up. Deal or no deal?”

  He thinks and smokes. “How long do I stay in the Cave?”

  “You’ll get out tomorrow, I promise.”

  He nods and I hand him the affidavit. Assuming he doesn’t read much, the wording is simple, nothing more than three syllables. With a cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth, and smoke burning his eyes, he reads it carefully. Ashes fall onto his shirt and he swats them away. After the last page he tosses the butt and says, “I got no problem with this.”

  I hand him a pen.

  “You promise me, Post?”

  “I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  THE LEADING death penalty lawyer in Arkansas is a friend I worked with on another case. His wife’s first cousin is a state senator, chairman of the Appropriations Committee, and thus in charge of funding all agencies, including Corrections. I don’t like working the favor bank because I have so little to give in return, but in this business I’m forced to network. Occasionally, something clicks and a miracle happens.

  Leaving the cotton fields of northeastern Arkansas, I call Vicki with the news. She is thrilled and runs to tell Mazy.

  * * *

  —

  ONCE THE NIGHTMARE of Quincy was behind her, June married again. Her second effort, with a man named James Rhoad, was slightly less chaotic than her first but didn’t last long. She was still a mess at that point, emotionally unstable and doing drugs. Frankie found Rhoad in Pensacola. He had nothing nice to say about his ex-wife, and over a few beers delivered the story we were hoping for.

  They lived together before they married, and during that brief period of romance and bliss they drank too much and smoked crack, but always away from the kids. On several occasions June laughed about Quincy, a man she would loathe forever. She confided in Rhoad that she had lied to help put him away, and that the lies were encouraged by Sheriff Pfitzner and Forrest Burkhead, the prosecutor.

  Rhoad was reluctant to get involved, but Frankie knows persistence. It’s part of our culture. Ease in, get to know the witnesses, develop a level of trust, and always gently remind them that an innocent man has been wronged by the system. In this case, by white folks in a small backward town.

  Frankie assured Rhoad that he had done nothing wrong and would face no trouble. June had lied and she was unwilling to acknowledge the damage she had done. He, Rhoad, could help immeasurably.

  In another bar and over another round of beers, he agreed to sign an affidavit.

  21

  For the past three months, our work has been done as quietly as possible. If the men who killed Keith Russo know we’re digging, we’re not aware of it. This changes when we file our petition for post-conviction relief on behalf of Quincy Miller.