Glenn Colacurci once served in the Florida Senate. His district covered Ruiz County and two others, and he was in his third term at the time of the murder. Keith Russo was a distant relative. Both came from the same Italian neighborhood in Tampa. In his younger years Colacurci ran the biggest law firm in town and hired Keith out of law school. When he showed up in Seabrook he brought a wife with him, but Colacurci had no position for her. Keith didn’t last long, and a year later the Russo firm was founded in a two-room walk-up above a bakery on Main Street.
I select Colacurci because his file is slightly thicker, and because he’ll probably know more about Keith. Of all the active lawyers in town, he’ll have a better recollection of history. On the phone he says he can spare half an hour.
Driving through Seabrook for the first time, I feel as though I know the place. There are not that many points of interest: the office building once owned by Keith and Diana and the place where the crime occurred; the street behind it where Carrie Holland claimed to have seen a black man making his escape; the courthouse. I park across from it on Main Street and sit and watch the languid foot traffic. I wonder how many of these people remember the murder. How many knew Keith Russo? Quincy Miller? Do they know the town got it wrong and sent an innocent man to prison? Of course not.
When it’s time, I join them on the sidewalk and go half a block to the office. In thick black letters of peeling paint, the sign on the windows says: COLACURCI LAW FIRM. An old bell jingles on the door as I step inside. An ancient tabby cat slides off a sofa and disturbs a layer of dust. To my right is a rolltop desk with a manual Underwood typewriter, as if just waiting for a gray-haired secretary to return and resume pecking away. The smell is of old leather and stale tobacco, not altogether unpleasant but begging for a good cleaning.
Remarkably, though, in the midst of an earlier century, a stunning young Asian woman in a short skirt appears with a smile and says, “Good morning. May I help you?”
I return the smile and say, “Yes, I’m Cullen Post. I talked to Mr. Colacurci yesterday and we agreed to meet this morning.”
She manages to grin and frown at the same time as she steps to a slightly more modern desk. Quietly, she says, “He didn’t tell me. Sorry. My name is Bea.”
“Is he here?” I ask.
“Sure. I’ll get him. He’s not that busy.” She smiles again and glides away. A moment later she waves me back and I enter the big office where Glenn has held court for decades. He is standing by his desk as if pleased to have a visitor, and we go through quick introductions. He motions to a leather sofa and says to Bea, “Fetch us some coffee, please.” He hobbles on a cane to a chair that would hold two people. He’s almost eighty and certainly looks it, with extra weight and white beard and a mass of unkempt white hair in bad need of a trimming. At the same time, he looks sort of dapper with a pink bow tie and red suspenders.
“Are you a priest or something?” he asks, staring at my collar.
“Yes. Episcopal.” I give him the quick version of Guardian Ministries. As I talk he rests his fuzzy chin on the grip of his cane and absorbs every word with piercing green, though apparently bloodshot, eyes. Bea brings the coffee and I take a sip. Lukewarm, probably instant.
When she leaves and closes the door, he asks, “What exactly is a priest doing sticking his nose into an old case like Quincy Miller?”
“Great question. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think he is innocent.”
This amuses him. “Interesting,” he mumbles. “I’ve never had a problem with Miller’s conviction. There was an eyewitness, as I remember.”
“There were no witnesses. A young woman named Carrie Holland testified she saw a black man running away from the scene carrying what was implied to have been a shotgun. She lied. She was a druggie who cut a deal with the authorities to avoid jail. She has now admitted she lied. And she wasn’t the only liar at trial.”
He takes his fingers and sweeps back his long hair. It’s oily