Part 9 (1/2)

Chapter 10.

THE NEXT DAY, in one of the public defender's dusty storage rooms on the third floor of the courthouse, I thumbed through what was left of the Florida v. Morgan file. A memo told me that on August 22, 1986, most of the original doc.u.ments had been s.h.i.+pped over to CCR in Tallaha.s.see. At the time, the a.s.sistant PD on the case had been someone named Brian Hoad.

I asked for him, and a legal intern looked up from a volume of Shepard's Federal Citations. ”Try Courtroom Four.”

I entered Courtroom Four, on the second floor, and took a seat in one of the pews. It wasn't hard to pick out Brian Hoad, a pale man wearing gla.s.ses and sitting next to the defendant, a skinny black man. A young police officer was testifying on direct examination. The prosecutor was a well-built Hispanic woman in her thirties, wearing a dark-blue suit. The judge on the bench looked bored.

The young cop admitted that having been fired at by the defendant at the scene of the robbery, he didn't want to give chase. ”A man who's fired a shot will stop and shoot again, and we couldn't see him.”

Hoad said, ”Objection-”

”Overruled.”

”Your Honor-”

”Don't argue with the court,” the judge commanded.

”I haven't stated the basis-”

”Next question,” the judge said, stifling a yawn.

At the recess I introduced myself and asked Hoad if we might talk in the snack bar. This was a thirty-five-year-old lawyer making barely forty thousand dollars a year; many of his clients, who filed affidavits of insolvency or hards.h.i.+p and thus received free legal services, would earn more than he did. He was probably in it because he enjoyed battling authority, didn't like billing clients, distrusted cops, and believed that the state should interfere as little as possible with people's lives except to redistribute the wealth.

I paid for coffee and crullers, and we sat down in two red plastic chairs. ”Is that a strong case you've got up there?” I asked.

”About as strong as this coffee,” Hoad said glumly.

”Then how come you're in trial?”

”I handle over three hundred felony cases a year. I try to plea- bargain all but the best. This is a hard-a.s.sed prosecutor. She wouldn't deal. I got screwed.”

Not as much as your client, I thought.

”I wanted to talk to you about an old case,” I said. ”You handled the appeal. Darryl Morgan-first-degree murder. The trial was back in '79, so you may not remember it.”

Hoad nodded a few times. ”Visible case. Shot Solomon Zide.”

”I was the trial prosecutor.”

”Jesus.” Hoad laughed. ”You?”

I frowned and said, ”I'm a defense attorney now, down in Sarasota.” Hoad was still looking away from me and chuckling. ”What the h.e.l.l's so funny?” I asked.

”Well, it's not really funny. It's just surprising. When you introduced yourself in the courtroom it was just another name. But now I've got it. You're a kind of legend around here.”

I remembered what Kenny Buckram had told me: A lot of things went on, you just said, ”No, that can't be, so I won't look.” I hadn't realized how much that had hurt me until now, when I found myself virtually praying that this young fellow didn't have the same opinion, even secondhand.

”Beldon Ruth asked me to prosecute Morgan,” I said. ”It was the last case I did before I packed it in.”

”You mind if I tell you something?”

”I hope I'm not going to mind.”

”I had that Morgan appeal in my caseload for a long time. I've read that trial transcript three or four times, looking for error. You did a fine job in the first stage. Hard to argue with any of it. But in the punishment part, you were lousy. You just gave up.”

”I didn't want the Morgan kid to die.”

”Well, that didn't help me at all. My chief point on appeal was incompetent defense counsel in the sentencing phase, and one of the judges up in Tallaha.s.see commented, off the record, 'Mr. Hoad, just between us, it may have been the other way round.' Another one told me, 'We can see clearly why the trial judge didn't accept the jury recommendation of a life sentence. A specific argument in favor of the death penalty, detailing the aggravating circ.u.mstances as per Florida Statute 921.141, was not advanced by counsel for the state.' ”

I sighed. ”You had the appeal from the beginning?”

He nodded. ”But I didn't get over to Tallaha.s.see until '81. I had half an hour to persuade the seven dwarfs that Morgan shouldn't be strapped into an electric chair and jolted to death. Hopeless. Then we got turned down in the Eleventh Circuit. Didn't have anything to take to the feds in Atlanta, but I went anyway. It's a beautiful old court. Gives you a feeling that justice might be lurking. But it's an illusion.” He peered at the dregs in his coffee cup. ”One of the judges up there was sympathetic. He said, 'Counsel, if we rule your way, won't we also have to grant relief in a lot of other cases that present the same claim?' ”

”You had an answer for that, I hope.”

”I said, 'Yes, probably you would, Your Honor, and probably you should.' They kicked me out of there in under a hour. But that was already in '86. That's the name of the game. Keep your man alive.” ”Did you argue against Eglin's override of the jury recommendation? That there was a rational basis for the jury sparing Morgan and that the trial judge abused his discretion?”

”Sure. It didn't work. In 1987 a man named Beauford White was executed after the jury gave a twelve-to-zero recommendation for life. And there was an override on a guy named Dobbert in 1984, where they'd voted ten to two for life.”

I didn't know what to say. But he did.

”Florida, Indiana, and Alabama are the only three states that have the post-Furman override provision. There's been one override in Indiana, about six in Alabama, and more than ninety in Florida. This is the killer state.”

I told him about Jerry Lee Elroy's 1979 deal in exchange for perjury.

”And the cop, Nickerson, he set that up?”

”If Elroy's telling the truth.”

Hoad seemed excited. ”Will your client testify to what he told you?”

”There'd have to be something in it for him. Elroy is not your basic altruist.”

He looked at his watch. ”d.a.m.n, I have to get back to court and help put the judge to sleep again.”

Going up in the elevator, I said, ”Why did you get so involved with this case?”

”Have you ever been to Raiford, Mr. Jaffe?”

”No.”

”An execution is not something you quickly forget. You know, they're having one day after tomorrow. A local boy.”

”Who are they burning?”

”Sweeting. Remember him? Killed a pair of coeds at Jacksonville University eight years ago. Chopped them up, buried them down by the river, dug one up again because he had these dreams that she might still be alive and blaming him. Well, he dies on Sat.u.r.day. You should go and watch Eric Sweeting pay for his sins. Then you'll understand why I get involved.”

The elevator stopped at the second floor. The woman prosecutor was waiting for us. She said to Hoad, ”Can I talk to you for a minute?”