Джон Гришэм - The Guardians

“Three hours.”

“Hallelujah. You know something, Post? My cell is six feet by ten, just about the same size as this little shithole we’re in now. My cellie is a white boy from downstate. Drugs. Not a bad kid, not a bad cellie, but can you imagine spending ten hours a day living with another human in a cage?”

“No.”

“ ’Course, we ain’t said a word to each other in over a year.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t stand each other. Nothing against white folks, Post, but there are a lot of differences, you know? I listen to Motown, he likes that country crap. My bunk is neat as a pin. He’s a slob. I don’t touch drugs. He’s stoned half the time. Enough of this, Post. Sorry to bring it up. I hate whiners. I’m so glad you’re here, Post. You have no idea.”

“I’m honored to be your lawyer, Quincy.”

“But why? You don’t make much money, do you? I mean, you can’t make much representing people like me.”

“We haven’t really discussed fees, have we?”

“Send me a bill. Then you can sue me.”

We laugh and he sits down, the phone cradled in his neck. “Seriously, who pays you?”

“I work for a nonprofit and, no, I don’t make much. But I’m not in it for the money.”

“God bless you, Post.”

“Diana Russo testified that on at least two occasions you went to their office and threatened Keith. True?”

“No. I was in his office several times during my divorce but stopped going when the case was over. When he wouldn’t talk to me on the phone, I went to the office one time, and, hell yes, I was thinking about taking a baseball bat and beating his brains out. But the little receptionist out front said he wasn’t in, said he was in court. It was a lie because his car, a fancy black Jaguar, was parked behind the office. I knew she was lying and I started to make a scene, but didn’t. I bit my tongue and left, never went back. I swear that’s the truth, Post. I swear. Diana lied, like everybody else.”

“She testified that you called their home several times and threatened him.”

“More lies. Phone calls leave a trail, Post. I ain’t that stupid. My lawyer, Tyler Townsend, tried to get the records from the phone company, but Diana blocked him. He tried to get a subpoena but we ran out of time during the trial. After I was convicted, the judge wouldn’t approve a subpoena. We never got those records. By the way, have you talked to Tyler?”

“No, but he’s on the list. We know where he is.”

“Good dude, Post, a real good dude. That young man believed me and fought like hell, a real bulldog. I know you lawyers get a bad rap, but he was a good one.”

“Any contact with him?”

“Not anymore, it’s been too long. We wrote letters for years, even after he quit the law. He told me once in a letter that my case broke his spirit. He knew I was innocent, and when he lost my case he lost faith in the system. Said he couldn’t be a part of it. He stopped by about ten years ago and it was a blessing to see him, but it also brought back bad memories. He actually cried when he saw me, Post.”

“Did he have a theory about the real killer?”

He lowers the phone and looks at the ceiling, as if the question is too involved. He raises it again and asks, “You trust these phones, Post?”

It’s against the law for the prison to eavesdrop on confidential talks between a lawyer and his client, but it happens. I shake my head. No.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But my letters to you are safe, right?”

“Right.” A prison cannot open mail related to legal matters, and it has been my experience that they don’t try. It’s too easy to notice if mail has been tampered with.

Quincy uses sign language to indicate he will put it in writing. I nod.

The fact that he has spent twenty-two years inside a prison where he is presumably safe from the outside, and is still worried, is revealing. Keith Russo was murdered for a reason. Someone other than Quincy Miller planned the killing, pulled it off with precision, then got away. What followed was a thorough framing that involved several conspirators. Smart guys, whoever they were, and are. Finding them may be impossible, but if I didn’t think we could prove Quincy’s innocence I wouldn’t be sitting here.

They’re still out there, and Quincy is still thinking about them.

The three hours pass quickly as we cover many topics: books—he reads two or three a week; my exonerees—he’s fascinated by the ones we’ve freed; politics—he stays abreast with newspapers and magazines; music—he loves the 1960s stuff from Detroit; corrections—he rails against a system that does so little to rehabilitate; sports—he has a small color television and lives for the games, even hockey. When the guard taps on my door I say goodbye and promise to be back. We touch fists at the window and he thanks me again.

7

The Chevrolet Impala owned by Otis Walker is parked in an employees’ lot behind a physical plant at the edge of campus. Frankie is parked nearby, waiting. It’s a 2006 model, purchased used by Otis and financed through a credit union. Vicki has the records. His second wife, June, drives a Toyota sedan with no liens. Their sixteen-year-old son doesn’t have his license yet.

At five minutes after 5:00 p.m., Otis emerges from the building with two coworkers and heads for the parking lot. Frankie gets out and checks a tire. The coworkers scatter and yell goodbye. As Otis is about to open his driver’s door, Frankie materializes from nowhere and says, “Say, Mr. Walker, you got a second?”

Otis is immediately suspicious, but Frankie is a black guy with a pleasant smile and Otis is not the first stranger he’s approached. “Maybe,” he says.

Frankie offers his hand and says, “My name’s Frankie Tatum and I’m an investigator for a lawyer out of Savannah.”

Now Otis is even more suspicious. He opens the door, tosses in his lunch pail, closes the door and says, “Okay.”

Frankie raises both hands in mock surrender and says, “I come in peace. I’m just looking for information about an old case.”

At this point a white man would have been rebuffed, but Frankie appears harmless. “I’m listening,” Otis says.

“I’m sure your wife has talked about her first husband, Quincy Miller.”

The name causes a slight sag of the shoulders, but Otis is curious enough to continue for a moment. “Not much,” he says. “A long time ago. Why are you involved with Quincy?”

“The lawyer I work for represents him. We’re convinced Quincy got framed for that murder and we’re trying to prove it.”

“Good luck with that one. Quincy got what he deserved.”

“Not really, Mr. Walker. Quincy is an innocent man who’s served twenty-two years for somebody else’s crime.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do. So does the lawyer I work for.”

Otis considers this for a moment. He has no record, has never been to prison, but his cousin is doing hard time for assaulting a police officer. In white America, prisons are good places where bad men pay for their crimes. In black America, they are too often used as warehouses to keep minorities off the streets.

Otis asks, “So who killed that lawyer?”

“We don’t know, and may never know. But we’re just trying to find the truth and get Quincy out.”

“I’m not sure I can help you.”

“But your wife can. She testified against him. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”

Otis shrugs and glances around. “Maybe, but it was a long time ago. She hasn’t mentioned Quincy’s name in years.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Talk about what?”

“Her testimony. She didn’t tell the truth, Mr. Walker. She told the jury that Quincy owned a 12-gauge shotgun. That was the murder weapon, and it was owned by somebody else.”