“Thanks for your time,” I reply like a real smartass. “I’d like to know what happened to my client, Quincy Miller.”
“We’re investigating and can’t talk about it yet. Right, Mr. Burch?”
Mr. Burch offers a lawyerly nod to confirm this.
“Do you know who attacked him?” I ask.
“We have suspects, but, again I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. Without divulging names, do you know who did it?”
Herman looks at Burch, who shakes his head.
“No sir, we don’t have that information yet.”
At this point the meeting is over. They are covering up and will give me nothing.
“Okay. Do you know if a guard was involved in the attack in any way?”
“Of course not,” Herman says with irritation. How dare I suggest something so outrageous.
“So, as of today, three days after the attack, you don’t know who did it and you claim that no one working for the prison was involved. Is that correct?”
“That’s what I said.”
I abruptly stand and head for the door. “There were two thugs who attacked my client. The first is Robert Earl Lane. Check him out. Right now his eyes are swollen shut, bluish in color because his nose was broken by Quincy. Lane was treated at your infirmary a few hours after the assault. We’ll subpoena the records so don’t lose them.”
Herman’s mouth opens but no words escape. Lawyer Burch frowns and looks thoroughly confused.
I open the door, pause, and conclude with “There’s more to the story. It will all come out when I bust your ass in federal court.”
I slam it behind me.
33
The Orlando office of the FBI is located in a four-level modern building in the suburb of Maitland. Susan Ashley and I arrive early for a three o’clock meeting with the powers that be. She has spent the past two days making contacts and jockeying for the appointment. She has also sent along a short summary of our file on Quincy Miller. We have no idea which special agent we’ll meet, but we are optimistic that we’ll find someone willing to listen.
Her name is Agnes Nolton, early forties and with enough clout to have a nice corner office. Along the way we pass dozens of agents in cramped cubbyholes, so it’s readily apparent that Agent Nolton has some seniority. In her office we are joined by Special Agent Lujewski, who looks like he should still be in college. After coffee is served and the pleasantries are finished, I am invited to do the talking.
I quickly summarize Guardian’s work on behalf of Quincy Miller and give the opinion that he was framed by a drug gang, with a lot of help from the ex-sheriff of Ruiz County. Now that we’re pushing for post-conviction relief, those responsible for the murder of Keith Russo are feeling the heat. I give the names of Nash Cooley, the drug lawyer in Miami, and Mickey Mercado, one of his henchmen. I speculate that these two along with other unknowns are responsible for the rather brilliant idea of ending our investigation by eliminating our client.
“Would that work?” Nolton asks. “If your client dies, what happens to the case?”
“Yes, it would work,” I reply. “Our mission is to get innocent people out of prison. We don’t have the time or resources to litigate from the grave.”
She nods in agreement and I continue. I describe Quincy and make much of the fact that he was not involved with gang activity; thus, there should have been no reason for the Aryans to attack him.
“So, we’re talking about a contract killing?” she asks.
“Yes, murder for hire, a federal offense.”
It’s obvious, at least to me, that Nolton is intrigued by the case. Lujewski keeps a poker face but misses nothing. He opens a laptop and starts pecking.
I continue, “And, we have the names of the two assailants, both convicted murderers. You’ve heard of the Aryan Deacons?”
Nolton smiles and likes it even more. A drug gang, a Mexican cartel at that, a crooked sheriff, the murder of a lawyer at his desk, a wrongful conviction, and now an attempted contract killing to stop an effort at exoneration. Not your everyday case.
“Sure,” she says. “But we’re too busy putting people in prison to worry about what happens once they get there. Do you plan to give me the names?”
“What will you do with them?”
She ponders this as she takes a sip of coffee and glances at Lujewski. He stops pecking and says, “The Aryan Deacons spun