The Racketeer (12 page)

“This is a proposed court order,” Mangrum says. “It’s just a starting point, but we’ve spent some time on it.”

Two days later, I am placed in the rear seat of a Ford SUV and driven away from Frostburg, my first exit from the camp since the day I arrived three years earlier. No leg chains today, but my wrists are cuffed in front of me. My two buddies are U.S. Marshals, names withheld, but they are nice enough. After we get through the weather, one of them asks if I’ve heard any good jokes. Lock away six hundred men and give them plenty of idle time, and the jokes come in waves.

“Clean or dirty?” I ask, though there are few clean jokes in prison.

“Oh, dirty of course,” the driver says.

I tell a couple and get some good laughs as the miles fly by. We’re on Interstate 68, zipping through Hagerstown, and the feeling of freedom is exhilarating. In spite of the handcuffs, I can almost taste the life out there. I watch the traffic and dream of owning and driving a car again, of going anywhere. I see fast-food restaurants at the interchanges and I salivate at the thought of a burger and fries. I see a couple walking hand in hand into a store, and I can almost feel the touch of her flesh. A beer sign in the window of a bar makes me thirsty. A billboard advertising Caribbean cruises takes me to another world. I feel as if I’ve been locked up for a century.

We turn south on Interstate 70 and are soon in the Washington-Baltimore sprawl. Three hours after we leave Frostburg, we arrive in the basement of the federal courthouse in downtown D.C. Inside the building, the handcuffs are removed; I proceed with one marshal in front of me, the other behind.

The meeting takes place in the chambers of Judge Slater, who’s as prickly as ever and seems to have aged twenty years in the past five. He considers me a criminal and barely acknowledges my presence. Fine, I don’t care. It is evident that a lot of conversations have taken place between his office, the U.S. Attorney’s
Office, the FBI, and the Attorney General of the United States. At one point, I count eleven people around the table. The Rule 35 motion, with the attached agreement, has increased in size and runs for twenty-two pages. I have read every word five times. I even demanded some of my own language.

The agreement, in short, gives me everything I want. Freedom, a new identity, government protection, and the reward money of $150,000.

After the usual throat clearing, Judge Slater takes charge. “We will now go on the record,” he says, and his court reporter begins her stenography. “Even though this is a confidential matter and the court’s order will be sealed, I want a record of this hearing.” A pause as he shuffles papers. “This is a motion by the United States for Rule 35 relief. Bannister, have you read this entire motion, agreement, and proposed order?”

“I have, Your Honor.”

“And I believe you are an attorney, or, shall I say, were an attorney.”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.”

“Does the motion, agreement, and order meet your approval?”

Damn right it does, old boy. “Yes sir.”

He goes around the table and asks the same questions. It’s all a formality because everyone has already agreed. And, most important, the Attorney General has signed the agreement.

Slater looks at me and says, “You understand, Mr. Bannister, that if the name you provide does not lead to an indictment, then the agreement is null and void after twelve months, your sentence will not be commuted, and you will serve the remaining time in full?”

“Yes sir.”

“And that until there is an indictment you will remain in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons?”

“Yes sir.”

After more discussion about the terms of the agreement,
Judge Slater signs the order and the hearing is over. He does not say farewell and I do not curse him the way I’d like to. Again, it’s a miracle that more federal judges are not whacked.

I am swarmed by an entourage and led down the stairs to a room where more dark suits are waiting. A video camera has been set up for my benefit, and Mr. Victor Westlake is pacing. I am asked to sit at the end of the table, face the camera, and offered something to drink. It’s a very nervous bunch, desperate to hear me utter the name.

CHAPTER 12

H
is name is Quinn Rucker, black male, aged thirty-eight, from Southwest D.C., convicted two years ago of distributing narcotics and sentenced to seven years. I met him at Frostburg. He walked away about three months ago and has not been seen since. He comes from a large family of drug dealers who’ve been active and successful for many years. These are not street dealers by any means. They are businessmen with contacts up and down the East Coast. They try to avoid violence but they are not afraid of it. They are disciplined, tough, and resourceful. Several have gone to prison. Several have been killed. To them, that’s just part of the overhead.”

I pause, take a breath. The room is silent.

At least five of the dark suits are taking notes. One has a laptop and has already pulled up the file on Quinn Rucker, who had made several cuts and was on the FBI’s top-fifty list of suspects, primarily because of his time with me at Frostburg and his escape from it.

“As I said, I met Quinn at Frostburg, and we became friends. Like a lot of inmates, he was convinced I could file a magic motion and get him out, but not in his case. He was not doing well in prison because Frostburg was his first gig. This happens to some of the new guys who have not seen other prisons. They don’t appreciate the camp atmosphere. Anyway, as his time dragged on
he got restless. He couldn’t imagine doing five more years. He has a wife, a couple of kids, cash from the family business, and a lot of insecurities. He was convinced some of his cousins were moving in, taking over his role, stealing his share. I listened to a lot of this but didn’t swallow all of it. These gang guys are generally full of crap and like to exaggerate their stories, especially when it comes to money and violence. But I liked Quinn. He was probably the best friend I’ve made yet in prison. We never celled together but we were close.”

“Do you know why he walked away?” Victor Westlake asks.

“I think so. Quinn was selling pot and doing well. He was also smoking a lot of it. As you know, the quickest way out of a federal camp is to get caught with drugs or alcohol. Strictly prohibited. Quinn got word through a snitch that the COs knew about his business and they were about to bust him. He’s extremely smart and savvy, and he never kept the drugs in his cell. Like most of the guys who sell on the black market, he hid his inventory in common areas. The heat was on, and he knew if he got caught he’d be sent away to a tougher place. So he walked. I’m sure he didn’t walk far. Probably had someone waiting close by.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

I nod, take my time, say, “He has a cousin, don’t know his name, but he owns a couple of strip clubs in Norfolk, Virginia, near the naval base. Find the cousin, and you’ll find Quinn.”

“Under what name?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not Quinn Rucker.”

“How do you know this?”

“Sorry, but that’s none of your business.”

At this point, Westlake nods at an agent by the door, and he disappears. The search is on.

“Let’s talk about Judge Fawcett,” Westlake says.

“Okay,” I reply. I cannot count the number of times I have lived for this moment. I have rehearsed this in the darkness of my cell when I couldn’t sleep. I have written it in narrative form, then
destroyed it. I have said the words out loud while taking long, lonely walks around the edges of Frostburg. It’s hard to believe this is finally happening.

“A big part of his gang’s business was running cocaine from Miami to the major cities along the East Coast, primarily the southern leg—Atlanta, Charleston, Raleigh, Charlotte, Richmond, and so on. Interstate 95 was the favored route because it is so heavily traveled, but the gang used every state highway and county road on the map. Most of it was mule running. They would pay a driver $5,000 to rent a car and haul a trunkload of coke to a distribution center in—pick a city. The mule would make the drop, then turn around and drive back to south Florida. According to Quinn, 90 percent of the coke snorted in Manhattan gets there in a car rented by a mule in Miami and driven north as if on legitimate business. Detection is virtually impossible. When mules are caught, it’s because someone snitched. Anyway, Quinn had a nephew who was working his way up the ladder of the family business. The kid was mule running, and he got caught speeding on Interstate 81 just outside of Roanoke. He was in a rented Avis van and said he was delivering antique furniture to a store in Georgetown. There was indeed furniture in the van, but the real cargo was cocaine with a street value of $5 million. The state trooper was suspicious and called for a backup. The nephew knew the rules and refused to allow a search of the van. The second trooper was a rookie, a real eager beaver, and he began poking around the cargo bay of the van. He had no warrant, no probable cause, and no permission to search. When he found the cocaine, he went ballistic and everything changed.”

I pause and take a sip of water. The agent with the laptop is pecking away, no doubt sending directives all over the East Coast.

“What is the nephew’s name?” Westlake asks.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think his last name was Rucker. Within his family, there are several last names and a fair number of aliases.”

“And so the nephew’s case was assigned to Judge Fawcett?” Westlake asks, prompting me along, though no one seems to be in a hurry. They’re hanging on every word and anxious to find Quinn Rucker, but they want the whole story.

“Yes, and Quinn hired a big lawyer in Roanoke, one who assured him the search was blatantly unconstitutional. If the search was thrown out by Fawcett, then so was the evidence. No evidence, no trial, no conviction, nothing. Somewhere in the process, Quinn learned that Judge Fawcett might look more favorably upon the nephew’s case if some cash could change hands. Serious cash. According to Quinn, the deal was brokered by their lawyer. And, no, I do not know the name of the lawyer.”

“How much cash?” Westlake asks.

“Half a million.” This is met with great skepticism, and I am not surprised. “I found it hard to believe too. A federal judge taking a bribe. But then I was also shocked when an FBI agent was caught spying for the Russians. I guess under the right circumstances, a man will do just about anything.”

“Let’s stay on subject here,” Westlake says, irritated.

“Sure. Quinn and the family paid the bribe. Fawcett took the bribe. The case crept along until one day when there was a hearing on the nephew’s motion to exclude the evidence that was seized during a bad search. Much to everyone’s surprise, the judge ruled against the nephew, in favor of the government, and ordered a trial. With no defense, the jury found the kid guilty, but the lawyer felt good about their chances on appeal. The case is still rattling on appeal. In the meantime, the nephew is serving an eighteen-year sentence in Alabama.”

“This is a nice story, Mr. Bannister,” Westlake says, “but how do you know Quinn Rucker killed the judge?”

“Because he told me he was going to do it, out of revenge and to retrieve his money. He talked about it often. He knew exactly where the judge lived, worked, and liked to spend his weekends. He suspected the money was hidden somewhere in the cabin,
and he firmly believed he wasn’t the only one who’d been ripped off by Fawcett. And, because he told me, Mr. Westlake, he will target me as soon as he’s arrested. I might walk out of prison, but I’ll always look over my shoulder. These people are very smart—look at your own investigation. Nothing. Not a clue. They hold grudges, and they are very patient. Quinn waited almost three years to kill the judge. He’ll wait twenty years to get me.”

“If he’s so smart, why would he tell you all of this?” Westlake asks.

“Simple. Like a lot of inmates, Quinn thought I could file some brilliant motion, find a loophole, and get him out of prison. He said he would pay me; said I would get half of whatever he took off Judge Fawcett. I’ve heard this before, and since. I looked at Quinn’s file and told him there was nothing I could do.”