if he’s in control of the moment. “I am.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“Nope.”
“Can you afford one?”
“Depends on how much one might cost.”
“Very well. I’ll appoint one for now and he’ll meet you over in the jail. We’ll come back next week and try again. In the meantime you will be held without bail. Have a seat.”
He sits and I ease forward to the defense table. I lean down and in a low voice say, “Hey, Mark, I’m the guy who called you the night they almost killed Duke. Remember the call?”
He glares and since he’s cuffed and can’t throw a punch, he looks as though he might spit.
“Anyway, I called you a cowardly scumbag because you were willing to let another man die for your crime. And I promised I’d see you in court.”
“Who are you?” he snarls.
A bailiff is moving toward us and I back away.
* * *
—
IN A BRIEF ceremony, the staff at Guardian hangs a large, framed color photo of Duke Russell on the wall with the other eight exonerees. It is a handsome portrait we paid for. Our client is posing outdoors at his mother’s home, leaning on a white board fence with a fishing rod at his side. A big smile. The contented face of a man happy to be free and young enough to enjoy another life. A life we’ve given him.
We pause and pat ourselves on the back, then return to our work.
30
Quincy thinks I’m here because I’m his lawyer and part of my job is to see my clients at every opportunity. This is my fourth visit and I bring him up to date. Of course we have heard nothing from Judge Plank just down the road, and Quincy does not understand why we can’t file a complaint and make the old fossil do something. I describe Zeke Huffey’s performance in court and pass along the guy’s apology for helping send Quincy to prison for the rest of his life. Quincy is unmoved. We kill two hours covering the same material.
Leaving the prison, I head south on a county road that soon expands to four then six lanes as Orlando looms. Watching the rearview mirror has become a habit that I hate, but I can’t make myself stop. I know there’s no one back there. If they are listening and watching they wouldn’t do it with such an antiquated method. They might hack phones and computers and who knows what else, but they wouldn’t waste their time chasing me in my little Ford SUV. I take a quick exit onto a busy thoroughfare, then another quick turn and wheel into the vast parking lot of a suburban mall. I park between two cars, walk inside like an average shopper, and hike at least half a mile to a sprawling Nike store where, at exactly 2:15, I find a rack of men’s running shirts. Tyler Townsend waits on the other side of the rack. He’s wearing a golf cap from a country club and a pair of fake tortoiseshell glasses.
Glancing around, he says softly, “This better be good.”
I examine a shirt and say, “We have seen the enemy. And I think you should know about it.”
“I’m listening,” he says without looking at me.
I tell him about the hearing in front of Judge Plank, the appearance of Nash Cooley and Mickey Mercado, and their clumsy efforts to avoid being seen together. Tyler does not recognize either name.
A kid with a big smile approaches and asks if we need help. I politely wave him off.
I give Tyler all the background we have on both Mercado and Cooley. I summarize what Len Duckworth told us about the DEA and the cartel.
“You suspected Russo was an informant, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Well, he was killed for a reason. Either his wife had him knocked off for the life insurance, which no one really ever believed, or he got in too thick with some of his shady clients. I’ve always figured it was the work of the drug gang. That’s how they handle informants, like those two boys I described down in Belize, or wherever it was. Remember the photo, Post? Me on the zip line?”
“I think about it all the time.”
“And so do I. Look, Post, if they’re watching you then we ain’t gonna be pals no more. I don’t want to see you again.” He takes a step back, glaring at me. “Nothing, Post, you hear? No contact whatsoever.”
I nod and say, “Got it.”
At