was convicted of first-degree murder for the killing of his girlfriend seventeen years ago in Dade County. Prior to that, he served three years for assaulting a police officer. Jon Drummik killed his grandmother for $60 in cash, money he needed to buy crack. He pled guilty in Sarasota in 1998 and avoided a capital trial. Both have been at Garvin Correctional Institute for about ten years, and since their prison files are confidential we can’t find much. Mazy can usually hack into almost anything, but we decide to avoid breaking the law. Likewise, prison gangs such as the Aryan Deacons are not known to keep much in the way of records, so there is no way to verify their membership.
The guard is Adam Stone, white male, thirty-four years old, resident of a little hick town half an hour from the prison. At 2:15 a.m., Frankie finds Stone’s home and calls in the license plate numbers of his car and pickup truck. At 3:00 a.m., the team at Guardian has a conference call and all info is exchanged. We put together a plan to dig deep into the backgrounds of Lane and Drummik and learn as much as possible about the Aryan Deacons in Florida.
Our theory is that the hit on Quincy was ordered, and paid for, by someone on the outside. Lane and Drummik had nothing to do with the Russo murder. They’re just a couple of hard-timers doing the job for a few bucks. The fact that their victim was black made the attack more enjoyable.
At 5:00 a.m. I return to the hospital and find the visitors’ lounge empty. I’m stopped at the ICU desk by a nurse, so at least someone is awake. I ask about Marvis Miller, and she nods toward Quincy’s room. Marvis is asleep on a rollaway cot, protecting his brother. There are no other guards or cops around. The nurse explains that last night around midnight Marvis became upset at the lack of vigilance and demanded the cot. Her boss agreed and they rolled one into Quincy’s room. I thank her and ask, “How’s the patient?”
She shrugs and says, “Hanging on.”
An hour later, Marvis stumbles forth, rubbing his eyes and happy to see me. We find some stale coffee and sit in folding chairs in the hallway, watching the parade of nurses and doctors doing their early rounds. One group motions for us to join them at Quincy’s door, and we are informed that his vitals continue to show slight improvement. They plan to keep him in a coma for several more days.
Marvis is worried about losing his job and needs to leave. We embrace at the elevator and I promise to call if there is a change. He promises to return as soon as possible, but he’s almost five hours away.
Two heavily equipped Orlando policemen appear and I chat them up. They plan to hang around for an hour or so until a prison guard arrives.
At 7:30 I get an e-mail from the prison. The warden has a few spare minutes to grant me an audience.
* * *
—
I ARRIVE AT Garvin forty-five minutes before my ten o’clock appointment. I try to explain to the staff at check-in that I have a meeting with the warden, but I’m treated like every other lawyer there to see a client. Nothing is easy in a prison. Rules are entrenched, or they are amended on the fly—whatever it takes to waste more time. I’m finally fetched by a guard in a golf cart and we go for a spin toward the administration building.
The warden is a large black guy with a real swagger. Twenty years ago he played football at Florida State and was drafted into the NFL where he lasted ten games before blowing out a knee. His office is adorned with color photos of him in uniforms, and autographed footballs, and table lamps made of helmets. Looks like he played for the Packers. He sits behind a massive desk that’s covered with files and paperwork, the domain of an important man. To his left stands the prison lawyer, a pale white bureaucrat who holds a notepad and stares at me as if he just might drag me into court for some reason, or no reason at all.
“I’ve got about fifteen minutes,” the warden begins pleasantly. His name is Odell Herman. On the walls there are at least three framed jerseys of different colors with the name HERMAN across the back. You’d