CHAD, OF COURSE, does not cooperate. He waits until the last possible moment to appeal her order, and the issue is sent to the state supreme court where it could languish for a year or so. Up there the Supremes have no deadline forcing them to rule on such matters and they are notoriously slow, especially in post-conviction relief cases. Years ago they affirmed Duke’s conviction after his trial and set a date for his execution, then they denied his first effort at relief. Most appellate judges, state and federal, despise these cases because they drag on for decades. And once they decide that a defendant is guilty, they rarely change their minds, regardless of new evidence.
And so we wait. Rosenberg and I discuss the strategy of pushing hard for a hearing before Judge Marlowe. Our fear is that old Judge Raney might recover and take his job back, though this is unlikely. He’s in his early eighties, golden years for a federal judge but a bit long in the tooth for an elected one. However, we are faced with the obvious reality that without DNA testing we cannot prevail.
I return to Holman and death row to visit with Duke. It’s been over three months since I last saw him and delivered the news that we had found the real killer. That euphoric moment has long since passed. These days his moods swing from raw anger to deep depression. Our phone conversations have not been pleasant.
Prison is a nightmare for those who deserve it. For those who don’t, it is a daily struggle to maintain some level of sanity. For those who suddenly learn that there is proof of their innocence yet they remain locked up, the situation is literally maddening.
25
I’m driving on a two-lane highway, headed east in either Mississippi or Alabama, it’s hard to say because these pine forests all look the same. Savannah is the destination in general. I haven’t been home in three weeks and I need a break. My cell buzzes and the ID says it’s Glenn Colacurci, the old lawyer in Seabrook.
It’s not him but rather his comely little secretary, Bea, and she wants to know when I’ll be back in the area. Glenn wants to talk but would rather meet somewhere other than Seabrook.
Three days later, I walk into The Bull, a popular bar in Gainesville. In a booth near the back, I see Bea as she waves and begins scooting out. Seated across from her and spiffed up nicely is Attorney Colacurci. Blue seersucker suit, starched white shirt, striped bow tie, suspenders.
Bea excuses herself and I take her seat. The waitress informs us that the bartender just happens to be concocting his own special recipe of sangria and we really should try it. We order two glasses.
“I love Gainesville,” Glenn says. “I spent seven years here in another lifetime. Great town. Great university. What’s your school, Post? Can’t remember.”
I don’t recall mentioning it to him. “Tennessee, undergrad. Good ole Rocky Top.”
He offers a slight grimace at this, says, “Not my favorite song.”
“And I’m not much of a Gator fan either.”
“Of course not.” We’ve managed to skip the weather, which in the South consumes at least the first five minutes of every casual conversation between two men before the subject turns to football, which goes on for an average of fifteen minutes. I am often almost rude in my desire to avoid wasting all this time.
“Let’s skip the football, Glenn. That’s not why we’re here.”
The waitress delivers two impressive glasses of pinkish sangria on ice.
When she’s gone he says, “No, it’s not. My girl found your petition online and printed me a copy. Not much of a computer man myself. Interesting reading. Well reasoned, well argued, very convincing.”
“Thank you. That’s what we do.”
“Got me to thinking back some twenty years ago. After Kenny Taft got murdered, there was some speculation that that episode did not go down like Pfitzner said. A lot of rumors that Taft got ambushed by his own men, Pfitzner’s boys. Perhaps our fine sheriff was involved in the drug trade, as you suspect. Perhaps Taft knew too much. At any rate, that case has been cold for twenty years. No sign of the killers, no evidence at all.”
I nod politely as he warms up. I hit my straw and he follows my lead.
“Taft’s partner was a boy named Brace Gilmer, who walked away with minor injuries, seems like he may have been nicked by a bullet,