walk. I guess I’m lucky you sent me that money. Thank you, Mr. Post. Some of my buddies never see a dime from the outside.”
Hideous prison tattoos are crawling up his neck. His eyes and cheeks are sunken, the look of a street addict who’s been stoned on cheap drugs for most of his life.
I say, “I’ll send some more money when I can, but we operate on a pretty lean budget.”
“Who is ‘we’ and why are you really here? A lawyer ain’t gonna help me.”
“I work for a nonprofit foundation dedicated to saving innocent men. One of our clients is Quincy Miller. Remember him?”
He chuckles and releases a cloud of smoke. “So you’re here under false pretenses, huh?”
“You want me to leave?”
“Depends on what you want.” As a career criminal, Zeke knows that the game has suddenly changed. I want something that only he possesses, and he’s already thinking about how to capitalize. He has played this game before.
I say, “Let’s start with the truth.”
He laughs and says, “Truth, justice, and the American way. You must be a fool, Mr. Post, searching for the truth in a place like this.”
“It’s my job, Zeke. It’s the only way I can get Quincy out of prison. You and I both know that you’re an experienced snitch who lied to the jury at Quincy’s trial. He never confessed to you. The details of the crime were fed to you by the cops and prosecutor who rehearsed your story with you. The jury bought it and Quincy has been locked up for twenty-two years. It’s time to get him out.”
He smiles as if he’s only humoring me. “I’m hungry. Can you fetch me a Coke and some peanuts?”
“Sure.” It’s not unusual, even in a place like this, for visitors to buy snacks. I tap on my door and a guard eventually opens it. He and I walk to a wall of vending machines where I start shoving in quarters. Two bucks for a twelve-ounce soda, a dollar each for two small packs of peanuts. The guard takes me back to our room and a few minutes later reappears on Zeke’s side and hands him the goodies. “Thanks,” he says and takes a drink.
It’s important to keep the conversation flowing, so I ask, “How did the cops convince you to testify against Quincy?”
“You know how they operate, Mr. Post. They’re always looking for witnesses, especially when they got no proof. I don’t remember all the details. It was a long time ago.”
“Yes. It’s certainly been a long time for Quincy. Do you ever think about him, Zeke? You know how bad prison is. You ever stop and think that you helped put an innocent man behind bars for the rest of his life?”
“Not really. Been too busy doing other things, you know?”
“Don’t know. Quincy has a chance of getting out. It’s a long shot but then all of them are. This is my work, Zeke, and I know what I’m doing. We need your help.”
“Help? What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell the truth. Sign an affidavit saying that you lied at trial and you did so because the cops and prosecutors offered you a sweet deal.”
He crunches on a mouthful of peanuts and studies the floor. I press on. “I know what you’re thinking, Zeke. You’re thinking that Florida is far away and you have no desire to get involved in a case this old. You’re thinking that if you come clean now with the truth then the cops and prosecutor will charge you with perjury and lock you up again. But that’s not going to happen. The statute of limitations on perjury ran out a long time ago. Plus, they’re all gone. The sheriff retired. The prosecutor did too. The judge is dead. The system back there has no interest in you whatsoever. You have nothing to gain and nothing to lose by helping Quincy get out. It’s really a no-brainer, Zeke. Do the right thing, tell the truth, and your life goes on.”
“Look, Mr. Post, I get out in seventeen months, and I’m not doing anything to screw that up.”
“Arkansas doesn’t care what you did in a Florida courtroom twenty-two years ago. You didn’t perjure yourself here. These guys couldn’t care less. Once you’re paroled, their only concern is filling your cell with the next man. You know how it all works, Zeke. You’re a pro at this game.”
He’s stupid enough to smile at this compliment. He likes the idea