“I have a piece of paper with three names. The first two are convicted killers pulling hard time, parole is way down the road, if ever. They did the number on Quincy. The third name is the guard who was close by and didn’t see a thing. Probably the lookout. There’s no video. They picked a spot that is unmonitored. Don’t know why Quincy was in the vicinity because most inmates know better. A guy got raped there two months ago. Maybe Quincy figured he was too tough to mess with and just got careless. You’ll have to ask him if you get the chance.”

  “How much do you know about the two thugs?”

  “Both are white, tough dudes in a tough gang, the Aryan Deacons. The first name is a guy I used to see every day when I worked his unit. From Dade County, nothing but trouble. The second name is unknown to me. There are two thousand prisoners at Garvin and thankfully I don’t know them all.”

  “Any chance it was a gang matter?”

  “I doubt it. The gangs are always at war, but Quincy stayed away from them, from what I’m told.”

  Frankie takes a sip from his bottle and pulls a white envelope from a coat pocket. He places it on the table and says, “Here’s five thousand.”

  “I said six,” Mosby says without reaching for the money.

  From another pocket, Frankie pulls out a roll of bills and keeps it below the table. He counts quickly and hands over ten $100 bills. “That’s six.”

  Mosby gives him the scrap of paper with one hand while taking the cash and the envelope with the other. Frankie unfolds the paper and looks at the three names.

  Mosby says, “There’s something else. Quincy didn’t go down easy. He landed some punches while he was able. The first name there survived with a crushed nose. He was treated at the infirmary this afternoon, said he got in a fight. Happens all the time and few questions are asked. His face will be messed up for a few days so I’d move fast. A little confirmation.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I won’t be going back to the hospital. They’re alternating guards now and we’re always shorthanded. Tell Mr. Post I appreciate the business.”

  “Will do. And we appreciate it too.”

  * * *

  —

  I GIVE MAZY the first name, Vicki the second, while I pursue all three. Fifteen minutes after Frankie said goodbye to Mosby, our three computers are raging through the Internet.

  Robert Earl Lane was convicted of first-degree murder for the killing of his girlfriend seventeen years ago in Dade County. Prior to that, he served three years for assaulting a police officer. Jon Drummik killed his grandmother for $60 in cash, money he needed to buy crack. He pled guilty in Sarasota in 1998 and avoided a capital trial. Both have been at Garvin Correctional Institute for about ten years, and since their prison files are confidential we can’t find much. Mazy can usually hack into almost anything, but we decide to avoid breaking the law. Likewise, prison gangs such as the Aryan Deacons are not known to keep much in the way of records, so there is no way to verify their membership.

  The guard is Adam Stone, white male, thirty-four years old, resident of a little hick town half an hour from the prison. At 2:15 a.m., Frankie finds Stone’s home and calls in the license plate numbers of his car and pickup truck. At 3:00 a.m., the team at Guardian has a conference call and all info is exchanged. We put together a plan to dig deep into the backgrounds of Lane and Drummik and learn as much as possible about the Aryan Deacons in Florida.

  Our theory is that the hit on Quincy was ordered, and paid for, by someone on the outside. Lane and Drummik had nothing to do with the Russo murder. They’re just a couple of hard-timers doing the job for a few bucks. The fact that their victim was black made the attack more enjoyable.

  At 5:00 a.m. I return to the hospital and find the visitors’ lounge empty. I’m stopped at the ICU desk by a nurse, so at least someone is awake. I ask about Marvis Miller, and she nods toward Quincy’s room. Marvis is asleep on a rollaway cot, protecting his brother. There are no other guards or cops around. The nurse explains that last night around midnight Marvis became upset at the lack of vigilance and demanded the cot. Her boss agreed and they rolled one into Quincy’s room. I thank her and ask, “How’s the patient?”

  She shrugs and says, “Hanging on.”

  An hour later, Marvis stumbles forth, rubbing his eyes and happy to see me. We find some stale coffee and sit in folding chairs in the hallway, watching the parade of nurses and doctors doing their early rounds. One group motions for us to join them at Quincy’s door, and we are informed that his vitals continue to show slight improvement. They plan to keep him in a coma for several more days.

  Marvis is worried about losing his job and needs to leave. We embrace at the elevator and I promise to call if there is a change. He promises to return as soon as possible, but he’s almost five hours away.

  Two heavily equipped Orlando policemen appear and I chat them up. They plan to hang around for an hour or so until a prison guard arrives.

  At 7:30 I get an e-mail from the prison. The warden has a few spare minutes to grant me an audience.

  * * *

  —

  I ARRIVE AT Garvin forty-five minutes before my ten o’clock appointment. I try to explain to the staff at check-in that I have a meeting with the warden, but I’m treated like every other lawyer there to see a client. Nothing is easy in a prison. Rules are entrenched, or they are amended on the fly—whatever it takes to waste more time. I’m finally fetched by a guard in a golf cart and we go for a spin toward the administration building.

  The warden is a large black guy with a real swagger. Twenty years ago he played football at Florida State and was drafted into the NFL where he lasted ten games before blowing out a knee. His office is adorned with color photos of him in uniforms, and autographed footballs, and table lamps made of helmets. Looks like he played for the Packers. He sits behind a massive desk that’s covered with files and paperwork, the domain of an important man. To his left stands the prison lawyer, a pale white bureaucrat who holds a notepad and stares at me as if he just might drag me into court for some reason, or no reason at all.

  “I’ve got about fifteen minutes,” the warden begins pleasantly. His name is Odell Herman. On the walls there are at least three framed jerseys of different colors with the name HERMAN across the back. You’d think the guy made the Hall of Fame.

  “Thanks for your time,” I reply like a real smartass. “I’d like to know what happened to my client, Quincy Miller.”

  “We’re investigating and can’t talk about it yet. Right, Mr. Burch?”

  Mr. Burch offers a lawyerly nod to confirm this.

  “Do you know who attacked him?” I ask.

  “We have suspects, but, again I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Okay, I’ll play along. Without divulging names, do you know who did it?”

  Herman looks at Burch, who shakes his head.

  “No sir, we don’t have that information yet.”

  At this point the meeting is over. They are covering up and will give me nothing.

  “Okay. Do you know if a guard was involved in the attack in any way?”

  “Of course not,” Herman says with irritation. How dare I suggest something so outrageous.

  “So, as of today, three days after the attack, you don’t know who did it and you claim that no one working for the prison was involved. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I abruptly stand and head for the door. “There were two thugs who attacked my client. The first is Robert Earl Lane. Check him out. Right now his eyes are swollen shut, bluish in color because his nose was broken by Quincy. Lane was treated at your infirmary a few hours after the assault. We’ll subpoena the records so don’t lose them.”

  Herman’s mouth opens but no words escape. Lawyer Burch frowns and looks thoroughly confused.

  I open the door, pause, and conclude with “There’s more to the story. It will all come out when I bust your ass in federal court.”

  I slam it behind me.

  33

  The Orlando office of the FBI is located in a four-level modern building in the suburb of Maitland. Susan Ashley and I arrive early for a three o’clock meeting with the powers that be. She has spent the past two days making contacts and jockeying for the appointment. She has also sent along a short summary of our file on Quincy Miller. We have no idea which special agent we’ll meet, but we are optimistic that we’ll find someone willing to listen.

  Her name is Agnes Nolton, early forties and with enough clout to have a nice corner office. Along the way we pass dozens of agents in cramped cubbyholes, so it’s readily apparent that Agent Nolton has some seniority. In her office we are joined by Special Agent Lujewski, who looks like he should still be in college. After coffee is served and the pleasantries are finished, I am invited to do the talking.

  I quickly summarize Guardian’s work on behalf of Quincy Miller and give the opinion that he was framed by a drug gang, with a lot of help from the ex-sheriff of Ruiz County. Now that we’re pushing for post-conviction relief, those responsible for the murder of Keith Russo are feeling the heat. I give the names of Nash Cooley, the drug lawyer in Miami, and Mickey Mercado, one of his henchmen. I speculate that these two along with other unknowns are responsible for the rather brilliant idea of ending our investigation by eliminating our client.

  “Would that work?” Nolton asks. “If your client dies, what happens to the case?”

  “Yes, it would work,” I reply. “Our mission is to get innocent people out of prison. We don’t have the time or resources to litigate from the grave.”

  She nods in agreement and I continue. I describe Quincy and make much of the fact that he was not involved with gang activity; thus, there should have been no reason for the Aryans to attack him.

  “So, we’re talking about a contract killing?” she asks.

  “Yes, murder for hire, a federal offense.”

  It’s obvious, at least to me, that Nolton is intrigued by the case. Lujewski keeps a poker face but misses nothing. He opens a laptop and starts pecking.

  I continue, “And, we have the names of the two assailants, both convicted murderers. You’ve heard of the Aryan Deacons?”

  Nolton smiles and likes it even more. A drug gang, a Mexican cartel at that, a crooked sheriff, the murder of a lawyer at his desk, a wrongful conviction, and now an attempted contract killing to stop an effort at exoneration. Not your everyday case.

  “Sure,” she says. “But we’re too busy putting people in prison to worry about what happens once they get there. Do you plan to give me the names?”

  “What will you do with them?”

  She ponders this as she takes a sip of coffee and glances at Lujewski. He stops pecking and says, “The Aryan Deacons spun off from the Aryan Brotherhood, the largest white prison gang in the U.S. The Dekes’ membership is estimated at ten thousand, though recordkeeping is spotty. Typical gang activity—drugs, food, sex, cell phones. Their alumni—the few who get out—remain members and carry on criminal activity. Pretty nasty bunch of boys.”

  Nolton says to me, “Again, we have our hands full on this side of the wall.”

  I say, “There’s also a prison guard who’s probably involved. White guy who looked the other way. He could be the weak link because he has more to lose.”

  She says, “I like the way you think, Post.”

  “We’re in the same business, sort of. You solve crimes to lock people up. I solve crimes to get people out.”

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS A typical workday for Adam Stone. He punched in at 7:59 a.m., and spent fifteen minutes at his locker drinking coffee and eating a doughnut with two other guards. He was in no hurry to report to Unit E for another stressful day of supervising criminals who would kill him if given half a chance. A few of the men he liked, and he enjoyed their banter. Others he despised, or even hated. Especially the blacks. Stone had been raised in a rough, rural area where few blacks lived or felt welcome. His father was a bitter racist who despised all minorities and blamed them for his lack of upward mobility in life. His mother claimed to have been sexually assaulted by a black athlete in high school, though no charges were ever filed. As a child, Adam was taught to avoid blacks when possible and to speak to them only in unpleasant terms.

  As a prison guard, though, he had no choice. Seventy percent of the population at Garvin was black or brown, as were most of the guards. For the seven years Adam had worked there, his racism had only deepened. He saw them at their worst—caged men who had always been discriminated against and abused were in charge of an environment they controlled. Their retribution was often sickening. For protection, the whites needed their own gangs. He secretly admired the Aryans. Outnumbered and constantly threatened, they survived by swearing blood oaths to one another. Their brand of violence was often breathtaking. Three years earlier, they had attacked two black guards with razor-sharp shanks, then hid the bodies and watched them bleed to death.

  During the day, Adam made his rounds, escorted prisoners to the infirmary and back, spent an obligatory hour watching surveillance cameras, stretched his thirty-minute lunch break into an hour, and punched out at 4:30. Eight hours of work without breaking a sweat, at twelve dollars each.

  He has no way of knowing that agents working for the federal government spent the day digging through his life.

  Two of them trail him as he leaves the prison. He is driving his pride and joy, a late-model Ram monster truck with oversized tires, black rims, not a speck of dirt anywhere. It is costing him $650 a month with years to go. His wife drives a late-model Toyota sedan at $300 a month. Their home is mortgaged to the tune of $135,000. Their bank records, obtained by warrant, show balances of almost $9,000 in checking and savings. In summary, Adam and his wife, who works as a part-time clerk in an insurance office, are living far above their meager means.

  He stops for gas at a country store and goes inside to pay. When he returns, two gentlemen in jeans and sneakers are waiting. They quickly give their names, mention the FBI, flash badges, and say they would like to talk. For a tough guy who feels even tougher in his uniform, Adam is weak at the knees. Beads of sweat ripple across his forehead.

  He follows them a mile to an abandoned school with an empty gravel lot. Under an old oak, next to what was once a playground, he leans on the edge of a wooden picnic table and tries to sound relaxed. “What can I do for you fellas?”

  Agent Frost says, “Just a few questions.”

  “Go right ahead,” Adam says with a drippy smile. He wipes his large forehead with the back of a sleeve.

  Agent Thagard says, “We know you’re a guard at Garvin, been there for what, seven years?”

  “Yes sir. Something like that.”

  “You know an inmate by the name of Quincy Miller?”

  Adam frowns and looks at the tree limbs as if searching deeply. A shake of the head and a quite unconvincing no. “Don’t believe so. Lot of inmates at Garvin.”

  Frost asks, “How about Robert Earl Lane and Jon Drummik? Ever meet those guys?”

  A quick cooperative smile and “Sure, they’re both in Unit E. That’s where I’m stationed for now.”

  Thagard says, “Quincy Miller, who’s black, was beaten unconscious three days ago in the alley between the gym and the shop, next to Unit E. He was stabbed at least three times and left for dead. You were on duty when the attack occurred. Know anything about it?”

  “I may have heard about it.”

  “How could you not hear about it?” Frost snaps sharply and takes a step closer.

  “A lot of fights at Garvin,” Adam says defensively.

  Thagard asks, “You didn’t see Lane and Drummik attack Quincy Miller?”

  “No.”

  “We have an informant who says you did. Says you were right there, but the reason you didn’t see anything was because you didn’t want to. Says you were the lookout. Says you’re well known as one of the Deacons’ favorite gofers.”

  Adam exhales mightily as if sucker punched in the gut. He wipes his forehead again and tries in vain to smile as if amused. “No way, man, no way.”

  Thagard says, “Let’s cut the bullshit, Adam. We have search warrants and we have collected all of your financial crap. We know you have nine thousand dollars in the bank, which is quite impressive for a guy making twelve bucks an hour and whose wife makes ten for part-time work, a guy with two kids, a guy who’s never inherited shit from a relative, a guy who spends at least two thousand a month just on nice wheels and a nice house, not to mention groceries and the phone bills. You’re living way above your means, Adam, and we know, from our informant, that you pick up extra dough running drugs for the Deacons. We can prove that in a court tomorrow.”

  They could not, but Adam certainly didn’t know the difference.

  Frost takes the hand-off smoothly with “You’re going to be indicted, Adam, federal court. The U.S. Attorney in Orlando is working on it now, grand jury comes in tomorrow. But we’re not going after the guards. Most of them peddle goods back and forth, pick up some extra cash. The warden doesn’t really care because he wants his inmates stoned. They behave better when they have trouble walking. You know the drill, Adam. We couldn’t care less about the contraband. We’re on to something much more important. The attack on Quincy Miller was a contract for hire, a hit ordered by someone on the outside. That makes it a conspiracy, and that makes it federal.”

  Adam’s eyes water and he wipes them with a forearm. “I ain’t done nothing. You can’t indict me.”

  Frost says, “Gee, we’ve never heard that before.”

  Thagard says, “The U.S. Attorney will grind you to a pulp, Adam. You don’t stand a chance. He’ll make sure the prison fires you immediately. There goes your salary, there go your bribes, all that cash. Then you’ll lose this cute little monster truck with the fat tires and ghetto rims, and your house, and, shit, Adam, it’s going to be awful.”