I bust your ass in federal court.”
I slam it behind me.
Chapter 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