Riley rails and at one point Frankie pulls the phone away from his ear. Over and over he says, “Now, come on, Riley, don’t burn it.”

  When he ends the call he’s convinced the house is about to be torched by its owners.

  45

  We have to wait until almost 11:00 a.m. when Dr. Benderschmidt finishes his lectures and returns to his office. Frankie and I are waiting there, fully caffeinated. He strides in with a smile and says, “You win!” He falls into his chair, fiddles with his bow tie, and is delighted to deliver the wonderful news. “There’s no match. There’s not even human blood. Oh, there’s plenty on Russo’s shirt, type O like fifty percent of us, but that’s all we know. As I said, we’re not a DNA lab here, and, thankfully, you don’t need one. The blood on the flashlight came from an animal, most likely a rabbit or a similar small mammal. In my report I’ll go into the science with all the vocabulary and terms, but not now. I’m running behind because I was up all night with this file. I’m catching a flight in two hours. You don’t look surprised, Post.”

  “I’m not surprised, Doc. Just relieved to know the truth.”

  “He’ll walk, right?”

  “It’s never that easy. You know the drill. It’ll take months of knife-fighting in court to walk him out, but we’re going to win. Thanks to you.”

  “You did the grunt work, Post. I’m just a scientist.”

  “And the thumbprint?”

  “The good news is that it’s not Quincy’s. The bad news is that it’s not Pfitzner’s either. As of now it’s unknown, but the Florida crime lab is still digging. They ran it through their systems last night, got nothing. Which probably means the person who handled the battery does not have prints on file. So it could be anybody. Pfitzner’s wife, his housekeeper, one of his office boys. Somebody you’ve never heard of and will never find.”

  Frankie says, “But it doesn’t matter, right? If the flashlight was not at the scene, then the real killer didn’t use it.”

  “That’s correct,” Kyle says. “So what happened? I suspect Pfitzner killed a rabbit, got a blood sample, and doused the flashlight. Me, I’d use a large syringe from the drugstore and spray the lens from about five feet away. It would spatter nicely enough. He let it dry, handled it with gloves, stuck it in a pocket, got a warrant for Quincy’s car, planted it. He knew of Paul Norwood, the so-called expert, and made sure the prosecutor hired him. Norwood would say anything for a fee, and he rolled into town with a thick résumé and convinced the, shall we say, unsophisticated jurors. Mostly white, as I recall.”

  “Eleven to one,” I add.

  “Sensational murder, the thirst for justice, the perfect suspect with motive, and an ingenious frame job. Quincy barely escaped the death penalty and got sent away forever. Twenty-three years later, the truth is discovered by you, Post. You deserve a medal.”

  “Thanks, Doc, but we don’t do medals. Just exonerations.”

  “It’s been a real pleasure. A fantastic case. I’ll be there when you need me.”

  * * *

  —

  LEAVING RICHMOND, I call my favorite nurse, who hands the phone to Quincy. I keep it simple and explain that we now have valuable evidence that will one day exonerate him. I downplay our chances of a quick release and caution that the next few months will see a lot of legal maneuvering to get him out. He is pleased, grateful, and subdued.

  He was attacked thirteen weeks ago and makes progress every day. He comprehends more and his words come quicker, his vocabulary expands. One major problem we’re having with him is that he does not understand that his rehab should go as slowly as possible. For him, getting well enough to be discharged means returning to prison. I have repeatedly tried to impress upon his medical team the importance of taking their time. But the patient is tired of going slow, tired of the hospital, tired of surgeries and needles and tubes. He wants to get up and run.

  As Frankie drives south, I have long conversations with Mazy, Susan Ashley, and Bill Cannon. There are so many ideas that Mazy patches together a conference call and the entire team brainstorms for an hour. She has the most brilliant idea of the moment, a trick play she has been contemplating for some time. Under Florida law, petitions for post-conviction relief must be filed in the county where the inmate is housed. Thus, old Judge Plank gets inundated with frivolous paperwork, because Garvin is right down the road in rural Poinsett County. He is too jaded by this to feel sympathy, and wouldn’t recognize new evidence if it bit him in the ass.

  As of today, though, Quincy is not incarcerated at Garvin. He’s hospitalized in downtown Orlando, the center of Orange County, population 1.5 million and home to forty-three different circuit judges. If we file a new petition in Orange County it will be assailed by the State, which will claim that we’re simply forum-shopping, but there is nothing to lose. If we prevail, we will present our new evidence before a new judge, one from a metropolitan area with some diversity. If we lose, we bounce back to old Plank for another go. First, though, we must dismiss our appeal of Plank’s denial of our first petition. It’s been sitting untouched in the supreme court in Tallahassee for three months.

  Mazy and I spend the next two days putting together an amended petition and dismissing the first one. We get the good news that the Florida state crime lab has reached the same conclusions as Kyle Benderschmidt.

  There is no news from the Tafts and that skeleton in their closet.

  If we kept champagne around the office, we might just pop a cork when my favorite nurse calls from Orlando and says (1) Quincy has an infection from one of the knife wounds, and (2) his jaw has not healed correctly and he needs another surgery.

  I end the conversation with “Please don’t let him out.”

  * * *

  —

  WE FILE IMMEDIATELY in circuit court in Orange County, Susan Ashley’s backyard. The court is secretive about how cases are assigned among the judges, so we do not know who we’ll draw. The State of Florida takes two weeks to respond, and does so with a rather terse little motion to dismiss that’s hardly worth the effort.

  Susan Ashley asks for an expedited hearing, and we learn that our judge is the Honorable Ansh Kumar, a thirty-eight-year-old second-generation American whose parents immigrated from India. We were praying for diversity and we got it. He grants our request for the hearing, a good sign, and I hustle down to Orlando. I’m riding with Frankie in his truck because he thinks my little Ford is not safe anymore, especially when I’m weaving while yelling into the phone. So he drives and I try not to yell.

  Frankie is crucial these days for another reason. Not surprisingly, he’s become close to Quincy and spends hours with him at the hospital. Together they watch ballgames, eat fast food, and in general terrorize the staff. The nurses know that both men have served long sentences for crimes they did not commit, so they let them by with some good-natured sexual bantering. Frankie tells me that some of the nurses can dish it out as fast as the boys.

  Once again, the State of Florida sends down Carmen Hidalgo to carry the ball. She’s one of a thousand lawyers in the Attorney General’s office, and again drew the short straw. Old innocence cases are not highly sought-after by the State’s top litigators.

  We gather for what should be a brief hearing in a modern courtroom on the third floor of a downtown high-rise, the new judicial building that Orange County is quite proud of. Judge Kumar welcomes the lawyers with a warm smile and orders us to get on with it.

  Carmen goes first and presents a nice argument that the state statute is clear and requires all such petitions for post-conviction relief to be filed in the county where the inmate is incarcerated. Susan Ashley counters with the argument that our client may still be assigned to Garvin, but he isn’t there. For the past fifteen weeks he’s been here, in Orlando, with no discharge date in sight. This issue has been briefed by both sides, and it is immediately obvious that Judge Kumar has read not only the briefs, but our thick petition as well.

  After listening patiently, he says, “Ms. Hidalgo, it appears as though the defendant has caught the State in a rather unique little loophole. The statute does not say a word about where to file this petition when the defendant is temporarily removed from the prison where he or she is housed. Looks like they gotcha!”

  “But, Your Honor…”

  Judge Kumar slowly raises both hands and offers a warm smile. “Please be seated, Ms. Hidalgo. Thank you. Now, first, I’m keeping this case for several reasons. First and most important, I’m not convinced that the statute requires that this petition be filed in Poinsett County. Second, I’m intrigued by the facts, especially in light of recent developments. I’ve read everything—the defendant’s first and second petitions, the State’s responses, the federal lawsuit filed against the former sheriff of Ruiz County and others, the indictments against those who allegedly conspired to carry out a contract killing in prison. I’ve read it all. And the third reason I’m keeping this case is because there seems to be a good chance that Quincy Miller has spent the past twenty-three years in prison for a murder committed by someone else. I assure you I have not made up my mind and I am looking forward to a full evidentiary hearing on this petition. Ms. Gross, when can you be ready for a full hearing?”

  Without standing, Susan Ashley says, “Tomorrow.”

  “And Ms. Hidalgo?”

  “Your Honor, please, we haven’t even filed our answer yet.”

  “Oh, I think you have. You filed one for the previous petition. It’s already in your computer. Just update it a bit and get it re-filed here immediately, Ms. Hidalgo. The hearing will be three weeks from today, in this courtroom.”

  The following day, Ms. Hidalgo sprints to the state supreme court with an expedited appeal of Kumar’s ruling. A week later, the Florida Supremes issue a two-sentence ruling that sides with us. We’re headed for a showdown, and this time it appears as though we now have a judge who will listen.

  46

  Bill Cannon makes an offer that surprises us. He would like to do the honors and take charge of the courtroom when we present our petition for post-conviction relief. He views it as an excellent tune-up for the federal lawsuit that is still months away. He’s itching for a fight and wants to hear the witnesses in person. Susan Ashley is only thirty-three and has limited experience in the courtroom, though she is bright and quick on her feet. I’d rate her at Double-A. Cannon, by reputation, is already in the Hall of Fame. She is delighted to yield the floor and honored to sit in the second chair. Since I’m a potential witness, I relinquish my role as a lawyer, without a twinge of regret. I still have a front row seat.

  Sensing a win for the home team, Vicki and Mazy take a few days off and drive to Orlando for the occasion. Frankie sits with them on the front row. All the Guardians are present. And there’s more. The Reverend Luther Hodges has also made the trip from Savannah to watch us in action. He has followed the case from the day we signed on and has spent many hours in prayer for Quincy. Glenn Colacurci arrives adorned in pink seersucker and with pretty Bea at his side. I doubt if he’s been praying that much. Sitting with him is Patrick McCutcheon who, according to Glenn, has made the decision not to retry Quincy should we prevail with our petition.

  Susan Ashley has been working the press and the case is generating publicity. The story of an old corrupt sheriff conspiring to knock off an innocent man he put in prison over twenty years ago is too good to miss. And now that the innocent man is pushing hard for his release while the sheriff is locked away adds layers to the plot. There are reporters scattered around the courtroom, along with twenty or so spectators. Every courtroom, regardless of its size or location, attracts its regulars—the curious who have nothing better to do.

  Judge Kumar assumes the bench without ceremony and welcomes everyone. He looks around and does not see the prisoner. Two days ago, he granted our request to allow Quincy to attend his own hearing. So far he has done everything we’ve asked of him.

  “Bring him in,” he says to a bailiff. A door beside the jury box opens and a deputy enters. Quincy walks behind him with a cane, no cuffs. He’s wearing a white shirt and tan slacks that I bought him yesterday. He wanted to wear a tie for the first time in twenty-three years, but I said it wasn’t necessary. There would be no jury, just a judge who probably wasn’t wearing a tie under his black robe. He’s at least forty pounds thinner and his motor skills have not fully recovered, but, damn, he looks great. He glances around, at first confused and uncertain, and who could blame him, but then he sees me and smiles. He shuffles our way as the deputy leads him to a seat between Susan Ashley and Bill Cannon. I’m ensconced behind them next to the bar. I pat Quincy on the shoulder and tell him how nice he looks. He turns and looks at me with watery eyes. This brief foray into freedom is already overwhelming.

  We’re in a brawl with the Department of Corrections over what to do with him. His doctors are finished for now and ready to discharge, which means a one-way ticket back to Garvin. Susan Ashley has requested a transfer to a minimum security unit near Fort Myers with rehab facilities. His doctors have generously provided letters and memos supporting his needs for more rehab. We are vehemently arguing that Garvin is a dangerous place for all prisoners in general but for Quincy in particular. Bill Cannon is barking away at the bureaucrats in Corrections in Tallahassee. However, since he currently has them all on the ropes with his $50 million lawsuit, they are not being cooperative. Odell Herman, the warden at Garvin, says that Quincy will be placed in PC—protective custody—like this is really something generous. PC is nothing more than solitary confinement.

  What Quincy needs is another infection, but since the last one almost killed him I keep this to myself. He’s been in the hospital for nineteen weeks, and he’s said to Frankie several times that at this point he prefers prison.

  We prefer nothing less than freedom, and it will happen. The timing is not clear.

  Bill Cannon rises and walks to the podium to address the court. He’s fifty-four years old, with thick and styled gray hair, a black suit, and the confidence of a courtroom master who can extract anything he wants from a jury, or a judge. His voice is a rich baritone that I’m sure he worked on decades ago. His elocution is perfect. He begins by saying that we are on the brink of finding the truth, the foundation of the greatest legal system in the world. The truth about who did or did not kill Keith Russo. The truth that was covered up long ago in a small corrupt town in north Florida. The truth that was deliberately buried by bad men. But now, after decades, after putting an innocent man away for twenty-three years, the truth is at hand.

  Cannon doesn’t need notes, doesn’t stop to look down at a yellow legal pad. There are no gaps, no “uh’s” or “ah’s” or fragmented sentences. The man speaks off the cuff in polished prose! And he’s mastered a strategy learned by few lawyers, even the most skilled advocates: he is succinct, does not repeat himself, and is brief. He lays out our case and tells Judge Kumar what we are about to prove. In less than ten minutes he sets the tone and leaves little doubt that he is on a mission and will not be denied.

  Carmen Hidalgo responds by reminding the court that the jury has spoken. Quincy Miller was given a fair trial many years ago and the jury unanimously convicted him. He came within one vote of getting the death penalty. Why should we relitigate old cases? Our system is strained and overworked and not designed to keep cases alive for decades. If we allow all convicted murderers to create new facts and allege new evidence, then what good is the first trial anyway?

  She is even briefer.

  Cannon decides to begin with drama and calls to the stand Wink Castle, Sheriff of Ruiz County. Wink brings with him a small cardboard box. After he’s sworn, Cannon takes him through the process of describing what’s in it. A clear plastic bag holds the flashlight, and it’s laid on the table next to the court reporter. Wink describes how it came into his possession. Cannon rolls a video of us in Glenn’s office opening the boxes. It’s a fun story and we all enjoy it, especially His Honor. Castle gives what little he knows of the history, including the mysterious fire. He is proud to inform the court that things have been modernized in Ruiz County under his watch.

  In other words, the drug dealers are gone. We’re all clean now!

  On cross-examination, Carmen Hidalgo scores a few minor points by forcing Castle to admit that the evidence boxes were missing for many years; thus, there is a huge gap in the chain of custody. This could be crucial if the flashlight is used in a subsequent criminal trial, but it’s useless now. When she’s finished, Judge Kumar inserts himself into the action by asking Wink, “Has this flashlight been examined by the state crime lab?”

  Wink says yes.

  “Do you have a copy of their report?”

  “No sir. Not yet.”

  “Do you know the name of the criminologist in charge of this evidence?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. I want you to call him right now and tell him that I expect him here tomorrow morning.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  I’m called as the second witness and sworn to tell the truth. This is the fourth time in my career that I’ve taken the stand, and courtrooms look far different from the inside of the witness box. All eyes are on the witness, who tries to focus and relax as his heart hammers away. Instantly, there is the hesitation to speak because the wrong words might tumble out. Be truthful. Be convincing. Be clear. All the standard advice I give to my witnesses is distant, at least for the moment. Thankfully, I have a brilliant trial lawyer on my side and we’ve rehearsed my little routine. I can’t imagine sitting up here trying to sell some half-baked tale with a guy like Cannon throwing grenades at me.