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.
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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.
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