Джон Гришэм - The Guardians

“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.