John Grisham - The Guardians

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NON-FICTION

The Innocent Man

The Guardians

John Grisham

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright Belfry Holdings, Inc 2019

The right of John Grisham to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68445 4

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.hodder.co.uk

To James McCloskey

The Exonerator

Contents

Chapter 1

Duke Russell is not guilty of the unspeakable crimes for which he was convicted; nonetheless, he is scheduled to be executed for them in one hour and forty-four minutes. As always during these dreadful nights, the clock seems to tick faster as the final hour approaches. Ive suffered through two of these countdowns in other states. One went full cycle and my man uttered his final words. The other was waved off in a miracle finish.

Tick awayits not going to happen, not tonight anyway. The folks who run Alabama may one day succeed in serving Duke his last meal before sticking a needle in his arm, but not tonight. Hes been on death row for only nine years. The average in this state is fifteen. Twenty is not unusual. There is an appeal bouncing around somewhere in the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta, and when it lands on the desk of the right law clerk within the hour this execution will be stayed. Duke will return to the horrors of solitary confinement and live to die another day.

Hes been my client for the past four years. His team includes a mammoth firm in Chicago, which has committed thousands of pro bono hours, and an antideath penalty group out of Birmingham that is spread pretty thin. Four years ago, when I became convinced he was innocent, I signed on as the point man. Currently I have five cases, all wrongful convictions, at least in my opinion.

Ive watched one of my clients die. I still believe he was innocent. I just couldnt prove it in time. One is enough.

For the third time today, I enter Alabamas death row and stop at the metal detector blocking the front door where two frowning guards are protecting their turf. One holds a clipboard and stares at me as if hes forgotten my name since my last visit two hours ago.

Post, Cullen Post, I say to the dunce. For Duke Russell.

He scans his clipboard as if it holds vital information, finds what he wants, and nods to a plastic basket on a short conveyor belt. In it, I place my briefcase and cell phone, same as before.

Watch and belt? I ask like a real smart-ass.

No, he grunts with an effort. I step through the detector, get cleared, and once again an innocence lawyer manages to properly enter death row without weaponry. I grab my briefcase and cell phone and follow the other guard down a sterile hallway to a wall of bars. He nods, switches click and clang, the bars slide open, and we hike down another hallway, trudging deeper into this miserable building. Around a corner, some men are waiting outside a windowless steel door. Four are in uniform, two in suits. One of the latter is the warden.

He looks gravely at me and steps over. Got a minute?

Not many, I reply. We move away from the group for a private chat. Hes not a bad guy, just doing his job, which hes new at and thus hes never pulled off an execution. Hes also the enemy, and whatever he wants he will not get from me.

We huddle up like pals and he whispers, Whats it look like?

I glance around as if to evaluate the situation and say, Gee, I dont know. Looks like an execution to me.

Come on, Post. Our lawyers are saying its a go.

Your lawyers are idiots. Weve already had this conversation.

Come on, Post. What are the odds right now?

Fifty-fifty, I say, lying.

This puzzles him and hes not sure how to respond. Id like to see my client, I say.

Sure, he says louder as if frustrated. He cant be viewed as cooperating with me, so he storms off. The guards step back as one of them opens the door.

Inside the Death Room, Duke is lying on a cot with his eyes closed. For the festivities, the rules allow him a small color television so he can watch whatever he wants. Its on mute with cable news giddy over wildfires out west. His countdown is not a big story on the national front.

At execution time, every death state has its own silly rituals, all designed to create as much drama as possible. Here, they allow full-contact visits with close family members in a large visitation room. At 10:00 p.m., they move the condemned man to the Death Room, which is next door to the Death Chamber where hell be killed. A chaplain and a lawyer are permitted to sit with him, but no one else. His last meal is served around 10:30, and he can order whatever he wants, except for alcohol.

How you doing? I ask as he sits up and smiles.

Never felt better. Any news?

Not yet, but Im still optimistic. We should hear something soon.

Duke is thirty-eight and white, and before getting arrested for rape and murder his criminal record consisted of two DUIs and a bunch of speeding tickets. No violence whatsoever. He was a party boy and hell-raiser in his younger days, but after nine years in solitary he has settled down considerably. My job is to set him free, which, at the moment, seems like a crazy dream.

I take the remote and change channels to one from Birmingham, but I leave it on mute.

You seem awfully confident, he says.

I can afford to. Im not getting the needle.

Youre a funny man, Post.

Relax, Duke.

Relax? He swings his feet to the floor and smiles again. He does indeed look rather relaxed, given the circumstances. He laughs and says, Do you remember Lucky Skelton?

No.

They finally got him, about five years ago, but not before serving him three last meals. Three times he walked the gangplank before getting the shove. Sausage pizza and a cherry Coke.

And what did you order?

Steak and fries, with a six-pack of beer.

I wouldnt count on the beer.

Are you gonna get me outta here, Post?

Not tonight, but Im working on it.