The Racketeer (13 page)

They have to believe I’m telling the truth. If Quinn Rucker is not indicted, then I’ll spend the next five years in prison. We’re still on opposite sides, me and them, but we’re slowly reaching common ground.

CHAPTER 13

S
ix hours later, two black FBI agents paid the cover charge at the Velvet Club, three blocks away from the Norfolk Naval Base. They were dressed like construction workers and mixed easily with the crowd, which was half white, half black, half sailors, and half civilians. The dancers were also half-and-half, affirmative action all around. Two surveillance vans waited in the parking lot, along with a dozen more agents. Quinn Rucker had been spotted, photographed, and identified entering the club at 5:30. He worked as a bartender, and when he left his post at 8:45 to go to the restroom, he was followed. Inside the restroom, the two agents confronted him. After a brief discussion, they agreed to leave through a rear door. Quinn understood the situation and made no sudden moves. Nor did he seem surprised. As with many escapees, the end of the run was in many ways a relief. The dreams of freedom crumble under the challenges of living normally. Someone is always back there.

He was handcuffed and taken to the FBI office in Norfolk. In an interrogation room, the two black agents served him coffee and began a friendly chat. The crime was nothing more than an escape, and he had no defense. He was dead guilty and headed back to prison.

They asked Quinn if he was willing to answer a few basic questions about his escape some three months earlier. He said sure,
why not? He volunteered that he had met an unnamed accomplice not far from the camp at Frostburg and had been driven back to D.C. He hung around there for a few days, but his presence was not well received. Escapees draw attention, and his boys did not appreciate the possibility of the FBI poking around and looking for him. He began muling cocaine from Miami to Atlanta, but the work was slow. He was damaged goods and his “syndicate,” as he called it, was wary of him. He saw his wife and kids occasionally, but knew the danger of getting too close to home. He spent time with an old girlfriend in Baltimore, but she, too, was less than excited about his presence. He drifted around, picking up an occasional drug run, then got lucky when his cousin gave him a job tending bar at the Velvet Club.

Next door, in a larger interrogation room, two of the FBI’s veteran interrogators were listening to the conversation. Another team was upstairs, waiting and listening. If things went well, it would be a long night for Quinn. Things had to go well for the FBI. With no physical evidence so far, it was imperative that the interrogation produce some proof. The FBI was worried, though, because they were dealing with a man who’d been around the block a few times. It was unlikely their suspect could be intimidated into saying much.

As soon as Quinn was taken out the back door of the Velvet Club, FBI agents cornered his cousin and demanded information. The cousin knew the ropes and had little to say until he was threatened with charges for harboring a fugitive. He had an impressive criminal record, state charges, and another indictment would likely send him back to the pen. He preferred life on the outside and began singing. Quinn was living and working under the assumed name of Jackie Todd, though his wages were being paid in cash and off the books. The cousin led the FBI agents
to a run-down trailer park a half mile away and showed them the furnished mobile home Quinn was leasing month to month. Parked next to the trailer was a Hummer H3, 2008 model, with North Carolina license plates. The cousin explained that Quinn preferred to walk to work and hide the Hummer, weather permitting.

Within an hour, the FBI had a search warrant for the trailer and the Hummer, which was towed to a police lot in Norfolk, opened and examined. The main door of the mobile home was locked but flimsy. One good jolt with a bat hammer and the agents were inside. The place was remarkably neat and clean. Working with a purpose, six agents combed the place from side to side, twelve feet, and from end to end, fifty feet. In the only bedroom, between the mattress and the box spring, they found Quinn’s wallet, keys, and cell phone. The wallet contained about $500 in cash, a fake North Carolina driver’s license, and two prepaid Visa credit cards valued at $1,200 each. The cell phone was of the disposable, prepaid variety, perfect for a man on the run. Under the bed, the agents found a Smith & Wesson short-barrel, .38-caliber handgun, loaded with hollow-point bullets.

Handling it carefully, the agents immediately assumed it was the same handgun used to kill Judge Fawcett and Naomi Clary.

The key chain included a key to a mini–storage unit two miles away. In a drawer in the kitchen, an agent found Quinn’s home office—a couple of manila files with scant paperwork. One form, though, was a six-month lease agreement for a unit at Macon’s Mini-Storage, signed by Jackie Todd. The lead investigator called Roanoke, where a federal magistrate was on duty, and a search warrant was e-mailed back to Norfolk.

The file also included a North Carolina car title issued to Jackie Todd for the 2008 Hummer H3. No liens were noted; thus it was safe to assume Mr. Todd had paid in full, on the spot, either in cash or by check. No checkbook or bank statements were found in the drawer; none were expected. A bill of sale for
the vehicle revealed that it was purchased on February 9, 2011, from a used-car lot in Roanoke. February 9 was two days after the bodies were found.

Fresh search warrant in hand, two agents entered Jackie Todd’s tiny unit at Macon’s Mini-Storage, under the careful and suspecting gaze of Mr. Macon himself. Concrete floor, unpainted cinder-block walls, a solitary lightbulb stuck in the ceiling. There were five cardboard boxes stacked against one wall. A quick look revealed some old clothes, a pair of muddy combat boots, a 9-millimeter Glock pistol with the registration number filed off, and, finally, a metal box stuffed neatly with cash. The agents took all five cardboard boxes, thanked Mr. Macon for his hospitality, and hurried away.

Simultaneously, the name Jackie R. Todd was being run through the National Crime Information Center computer system. There was a hit, in Roanoke, Virginia.

At midnight, Quinn was moved next door and introduced to Special Agents Pankovits and Delocke. They began by explaining they were used by the FBI to interrogate escapees. This was nothing more than a routine briefing, a little fact-finding probe that they always enjoyed because who wouldn’t love to talk to an escapee and get all the details. It was late, and if Quinn wanted to get some sleep in the county jail, they would be happy to start first thing in the morning. He declined and said he would like to get it over with. Sandwiches and soft drinks were brought in. The mood was lighthearted and the agents were extremely cordial. Pankovits was white and Delocke was black, and Quinn seemed to enjoy their company. He nibbled on a ham-and-swiss while they told a story about an inmate who’d spent twenty-one years on the run. The FBI sent them all the way to Thailand to bring him home. What great fun.

They asked about his escape and movements in the days that followed it, questions and answers that had already been covered by his first interrogation. Quinn refused to identify his accomplice and gave them no names of anyone who had helped him along the way. This was fine. They did not press and seemed to have no interest in going after anyone else. After an hour of friendly chitchat, Pankovits remembered that they had not read him his
Miranda
rights. There was no harm in this, they said, because his crime was obvious and he had not implicated himself in anything other than the escape. No big deal, but if he wanted to continue, he would have to waive his rights. This he did by signing a form. By this time he was being called Quinn, and they were Andy, for Pankovits, and Jesse, for Delocke.

They carefully reconstructed his movements over the past three months, and Quinn did a surprisingly thorough job of recalling dates, places, and events. The agents were impressed and commended him on having such a fine memory. They paid particular attention to his earnings; all in cash of course, but how much for each job? “So, on the second run from Miami to Charleston,” Pankovits said, smiling at his notes, “the one a week after last New Year’s, Quinn, you got how much in cash?”

“I believe it was six thousand.”

“Right, right.”

Both agents scribbled furiously as if they believed every single word uttered by their subject. Quinn said he’d been living and working in Norfolk since mid-February, about a month. He lived with his cousin and a couple of his girlfriends in a large apartment not far from the Velvet Club. He was being paid in cash, food, drink, sex, and pot.

“So, Quinn,” Delocke said as he tallied up a pile of numbers, “looks to me as though you’ve earned about $46,000 since you left Frostburg, all cash, no taxes. Not bad for three months’ work.”

“I guess.”

“How much of this have you spent?” Pankovits asked.

Quinn shrugged as if it really didn’t matter now. “I don’t know. Most of it. It takes a lot of money to move around.”

“When you were running the drugs from Miami and back, how did you rent cars?” Delocke asked.

“I didn’t rent them. Someone else did, gave me the keys. My job was to drive carefully, slowly, and not get stopped by the cops.”

Fair enough, and both agents happily concurred. “Did you buy a vehicle?” Pankovits asked without looking up from his note taking.

“No,” Quinn said with a smile. Silly question. “You can’t buy a car when you’re on the run and have no papers.”

Of course not.

At the Freezer in Roanoke, Victor Westlake sat before a large screen, frozen at the image of Quinn Rucker. A hidden camera in the interrogation room was sending the video across the commonwealth to a makeshift room outfitted with an astonishing supply of gadgets and technology. Four other agents sat with Westlake, all staring at the eyes and expressions of Mr. Rucker.

“No way,” mumbled one of the other four. “This guy’s too smart for this. He knows we’ll find the trailer, the wallet, the fake ID, the Hummer.”

“Maybe not,” mumbled another. “Right now, it’s just an escape. He’s thinking we have no clue about the murder. This is nothing serious.”

“I agree,” said another. “I think he’s betting, playing the odds. He thinks he can survive a few questions, then get hauled back to jail and then to prison. He’s thinking he’ll call his cousin at some point and tell him to grab everything.”

“Wait and see,” said Westlake. “Let’s see how he reacts when the first bomb hits.”