The Racketeer (16 page)

Both agents stood and picked up their files and notepads. “We’ll take a break, Quinn. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

CHAPTER 15

T
hough pleased with the progress of the interrogation, Victor Westlake was worried. There were no witnesses, no ballistics report linking Quinn’s .38 to the crime scene, no boot print, and no simultaneous interrogation of Dee Ray. There was motive, if they believed Malcolm Bannister’s story about the bribe. The strongest evidence so far was the fact that Quinn Rucker was in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found and that he had too much cash. Westlake and his team were exhausted from the all-nighter, and it was still dark outside. They reloaded with coffee and took long walks around the Freezer. They occasionally checked on the screen for images of their suspect. Quinn was lying on the table but not sleeping.

At 6:00 a.m., Pankovits and Delocke returned to the interrogation room. Each had a tall glass with a refill of Red Bull and ice. Quinn got off the table and settled himself into his chair for another round.

Pankovits went first. “Just got off the phone with the U.S. Attorney, Quinn. We briefed him on our progress here with you, and he says his grand jury will convene tomorrow and hand down the indictment. Two counts of capital murder.”

“Congratulations,” Quinn replied. “I guess I’d better find me a lawyer.”

“Sure, but it might take more than one. I’m not sure how much you understand about federal racketeering laws, Quinn, but they can be brutal. The U.S. Attorney will take the position that the murders of Judge Fawcett and his secretary were the actions of a gang, a well-known and well-organized gang, with you, of course, as the triggerman. The indictment will include a lot of charges, including capital murder, but also bribery. And, most important, it will name not only you but other nefarious characters such as Tall Man, Dee Ray, one of your sisters, your cousin Antoine Beck, and a couple dozen other relatives.”

Delocke added, “You guys can have your own wing on death row. The Rucker-Beck gang, all lined up, cell to cell, just waiting for the needle.” Delocke was smiling and Pankovits was amused. A couple of comedians.

Quinn began scratching the side of his head and talking to the floor. “You know, I wonder what my lawyer would say about this, got me locked in this dark room, no windows, all night long, started at, what, ’bout nine last night and here it is six in the morning, nine straight hours of nonstop bullshit from you two, accusing me of bribing a judge, then killing a judge, and now threatening me with death, and not only my ass but my whole family as well. You say you got witnesses out there, all lined up and ready to testify, and ballistics on a stolen gun, and a boot print where some sumbitch stepped in mud, and how am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth or lying your ass off because I wouldn’t trust the FBI with anything, never have, never will. Lied to me the first time I got busted and sent away, and I assume you’re lying here tonight. Maybe I lied a little, but can you honestly tell me right now that you ain’t lied to me tonight? Can you?”

Pankovits and Delocke stared at him. Maybe it was fear, or guilt. Maybe it was delirium. Whatever, Quinn was really talking.

“We are telling the truth,” Pankovits managed to say.

“And chalk up another lie. My lawyer will get to the bottom of this. He’ll nail your ass in court, expose you, expose all your lies. Show me the boot print analysis. Now, I want to see it.”

“We’re not authorized to show it to anyone,” Pankovits said.

“How convenient.” Quinn leaned forward with an elbow on each knee. His forehead almost touched the edge of the table, and he kept talking to the floor. “What about the ballistics report? Can I see that?”

“We’re not authorized—”

“What a surprise. My lawyer’ll get it, whenever and wherever I get to see my lawyer. I’ve asked for him all night, and my rights have been violated.”

“You have not asked for your lawyer,” Delocke said. “You’ve mentioned a lawyer in vague terms, but you have not requested one. And you’ve kept talking.”

“As if I had a choice. Either sit here and talk or go to the drunk tank with a bunch of winos. I’ve been there before, you know, and I ain’t afraid of it. It’s just part of the business, you know? You do the crime, you do the time. You know the rules when you get into the business. You see all your friends and family shipped off, but they come back, you know? You do your time and you get out.”

“Or you escape,” Delocke said.

“That too. Pretty stupid, I guess, but I had to walk.”

“Because you had to settle a score, right, Quinn? For two years in prison you thought about Judge Fawcett every day. He took your money, then he broke the deal. In your business, he had to go down, right?”

“That’s right.”

Quinn was rubbing his temples, staring at his feet, almost mumbling. The agents took a deep breath and exchanged a quick smile. Finally, the first hint of an admission.

Pankovits rearranged some papers and said, “Now, Quinn,
let’s look at where we are. You’ve just admitted Judge Fawcett had to go down, is that right? Quinn?”

Quinn was still leaning on his elbows, staring at the floor, rocking now as if in a daze. He did not respond.

Delocke read from his legal pad and said, “According to my notes, Quinn, I asked the question, and I quote, ‘In your business, he had to go down, right?’ and you replied, ‘That’s right.’ Do you deny this, Quinn?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. Stop it.”

Pankovits jumped in: “Okay, Quinn, we need to inform you of some recent developments. About two hours ago, Dee Ray finally admitted he gave you the cash to pass along to Judge Fawcett, and that he, Tall Man, and some of the others helped you plan the murder. Dee Ray’s come clean, and he’s already got a deal—no death penalty, no capital murder. We picked up Tall Man two hours ago, and now we’re looking for one of your sisters. This is getting ugly.”

“Come on. They don’t know nothing.”

“Of course they do, and they’ll be indicted with you tomorrow.”

“You can’t do that, man. Come on. It’ll kill my mother. Poor woman’s seventy years old and got a bad heart. You can’t be messing with her like that.”

“Then step up, Quinn!” Pankovits said loudly. “Take the heat! You did the crime. As you like to say, now do the time. No sense taking the rest of your family down with you.”

“Step up and do what?”

“Cut a deal. Give us the details, and we lean on the U.S. Attorney to lay off your family,” Pankovits said.

“And there’s something else,” Delocke added. “If we do the right deal, there will be no death penalty. Just life, no parole. Seems the Fawcett family does not believe in the death penalty, nor do they want a long, painful trial. They want the case closed, and the U.S. Attorney will respect their wishes. According to
him, he will consider a plea agreement, one that will save your life.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to, Quinn. Just wait a couple of days for the indictments to come down. There could be as many as thirty people named for various charges.”

Quinn Rucker stood slowly and stretched his hands as high as possible. He took a few steps in one direction, then another, and began saying, “Bannister, Bannister, Bannister.”

“Beg your pardon, Quinn,” Pankovits said.

“Bannister, Bannister, Bannister.”

“Who’s Bannister?” Delocke asked.

“Bannister is a rat,” Quinn said bitterly. “Scum, an old friend in Frostburg, a crooked lawyer who claims he’s innocent. Nothing but a rat. Don’t pretend you don’t know him, because you wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t a rat.”

“Never met the man,” Pankovits said. Delocke was shaking his head no.

Quinn sat down and thrust both elbows onto the table. He was wide-awake now, his narrow eyes glaring at the two agents, his thick hands rubbing each other. “So what’s the deal?” he asked.

“We can’t make deals, Quinn, but we can make things happen,” Pankovits said. “For starters, we call off the dogs in D.C., and your family and gang are left alone, for now anyway. The U.S. Attorney has been taking heat for five weeks, ever since the murder, and he’s desperate for some good news. He assures us, and we can assure you, that there will be no capital murder charge and that it will be a stand-alone indictment. Just you, for the two killings. Plain and simple.”

Delocke said, “That’s one half, the other half is a video statement from you confessing to the crimes.”

Quinn wrapped his hands around his head and closed his eyes. A minute passed as he fought himself. “I really want my lawyer,” he finally said through clenched teeth.

Delocke replied, “You can do that, Quinn, of course you can. But Dee Ray and Tall Man are in custody right now, singing like birds, and things are only getting worse. It might be a day or two before your lawyer can get down here. You say the word, and we’ll turn your brothers loose and leave them alone.”

Quinn suddenly snapped and yelled, “All right!”

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll do it!”

“Not so fast, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “We need to go over a few things first. Let’s review the facts, put things in order, set the stage, make sure we’re all on the same page with the crime scene. We need to make sure that all important details are included.”

“Okay, okay. But can I have some breakfast?”

“Sure, Quinn, no problem. We have all day.”

CHAPTER 16

O
ne of the few virtues of prison life is the gradual acquisition of patience. Nothing moves at a reasonable pace, and you learn to ignore clocks. Tomorrow will come around soon enough; surviving today is enough of a challenge. After my quick trip to D.C., I roam around Frostburg for a couple of days reminding myself that I have become a very patient person, that the FBI will move quickly, and, regardless, there is nothing more I can do. Much to my surprise, and relief, events unfold rapidly.

I do not expect the FBI to keep me in the loop, so I have no way of knowing they have arrested Quinn Rucker and that he has confessed. This news is delivered by the
Washington Post
, on Saturday, March 19, front page, beneath the fold:
SUSPECT ARRESTED IN MURDER OF FEDERAL JUDGE
. There is a large black-and-white photo of Quinn, one of his mug shots, and I stare into his eyes as I take a seat in the coffee room just after breakfast. The article is rather light on facts but heavy on suspicion. Obviously, all news is being parceled out by the FBI, so there’s not much detail. The arrest, in Norfolk, of an escaped felon, one with a conviction for drug trafficking and a long history of gang involvement in the D.C. area. There is no whiff of a motive, no clue as to how the FBI decided Quinn was their man, and only a passing reference to a ballistics report. Most important, the article
states, “After waiving his
Miranda
rights, the suspect voluntarily underwent a lengthy interrogation and provided the FBI with a videotaped confession.”

I met Quinn Rucker two years ago, not long after he arrived at Frostburg. After he settled in, he made his way to the library and asked me to review his sentencing order. In prison, you learn to make friends slowly, with great caution, because few people are genuine. Naturally, the place is swarming with crooks, cons, and scam artists, and everyone is looking out for his own skin. With Quinn, though, things were different. He was instantly likeable, and I’m not sure I’ve met another person with as much charisma and sincerity. Then the mood would swing, and he would withdraw into himself and suffer through his “dark days,” as he called them. He could be cranky, rude, and harsh, and the potential for violence was not far from the surface. He would eat alone and speak to no one. Two days later, he would be telling jokes over breakfast and challenging the serious players to a game of poker. He could be loud and cocky, then quiet and vulnerable. As I’ve said, there is no violence at Frostburg. The nearest thing to a fight I’ve seen was an episode in which a hillbilly we called Skunk challenged Quinn to a fistfight to settle a gambling dispute. Skunk was at least four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Quinn, but the fight never happened. Quinn backed down and was humiliated. Two days later, he showed me a homemade knife, a “shank,” that he’d bought on the black market. He planned to use it to slice Skunk’s throat.

I talked him out of the killing, though I wasn’t convinced he was serious. I spent a lot of time with Quinn and we became friends. He was convinced I could work some legal magic, spring us both from prison, and we would become partners of some sort. He was tired of the family business and wanted to go straight. There was a pot of gold waiting out there, and Judge Fawcett was sitting on it.