The Racketeer (17 page)

Henry Bannister is waiting in the visitors’ room, sitting sadly in a folding chair while a young mother and her three children squabble nearby. The room will fill up as the morning goes on, and Henry prefers to get his visits over with earlier rather than later. The rules allow a family member to sit and chat with an inmate from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. each Saturday and Sunday, but one hour is enough for Henry. And for me as well.

If things go as planned, and I have little reason to believe they will, this could be my last visit with my father. I may not see him again for years, if ever, but I can’t discuss this. I take the brown bag of cookies from Aunt Racine and nibble on one. We talk about my brother, Marcus, and his rotten children and my sister, Ruby, and her perfect ones.

Winchester averages one murder per year, and the quota was filled last week when a husband arrived home early from work and saw a strange truck parked in his driveway. He sneaked into his house and caught his wife with one of his acquaintances, both enthusiastically violating their marriage vows. The husband had picked up his shotgun, and when the tomcat saw it, he attempted to jump through an unopened bedroom window, naked. He didn’t make it, and gunfire followed.

Henry thinks the guy might get off and relishes telling the story. It seems the entire town is split between guilt and justifiable homicide. I can almost hear the relentless gossip in the Old Town coffee shops I once visited. He dwells on this story for a long time, probably because we do not want to cover family issues.

But cover them we must. He changes subjects and says, “Looks like that little white girl is thinking about an abortion. Maybe I won’t be a great-grandfather after all.”

“Delmon will do it again,” I say. We always expect the worst out of the kid.

“We need to get him sterilized. He’s too stupid to use condoms.”

“Buy him some anyway. You know Marcus is too broke.”

“I only see the kid when he wants something. Hell, I’ll probably get hit up for the abortion. I think the girl’s trash.”

While on the topic of money, I can’t help but think about the reward in the Fawcett case. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash. I’ve never seen so much money. Before Bo was born, Dionne and I realized one day we had saved $6,000. We put half in a mutual fund and took a cruise with the remainder. Our frugal habits were soon forgotten, and we never again had that kind of cash. Just before I was indicted, we refinanced our house to squeeze out every last drop of equity. The money went for legal fees.

I’ll be rich and on the run. I remind myself not to get excited, but it’s impossible.

Henry needs a new left knee, and we talk about this for some time. He’s always poked fun at old folks who dwell on their ailments, but he’s getting just as bad. After an hour, he’s bored and ready to go. I walk with him to the door, and we shake hands stiffly. As he leaves, I wonder if I will ever see him again.

Sunday. No word from the FBI, or anyone else. I read four newspapers after breakfast and learn almost nothing new about Quinn Rucker and his arrest. However, there is one significant development. According to the
Post
, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Virginia will present the case to the grand jury tomorrow. Monday. If the grand jury issues an indictment, then, in theory and by agreement, I am supposed to become a free man.

There is a surprising amount of organized religion in prison. As troubled men, we seek solace, peace, comfort, and guidance.
We’ve been humiliated, humbled, stripped bare of dignity, family, and assets, and we have nothing left. Cast into hell, we look upward for a way out. There are a few Muslims who pray five times a day and stick to themselves. There is a self-appointed Buddhist monk with a few followers. No Jews or Mormons that I know of. Then there are us Christians, and this is where it gets complicated. A Catholic priest comes in twice a month for Mass at eight on Sunday mornings. As soon as the Catholics clear out of the small chapel, a nondenominational service is held for those from mainline churches—Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and so on. This is where I fit in on most Sundays. At 10:00 a.m., the white Pentecostals gather for a rowdy service with loud music and even louder preaching, along with healing and speaking in tongues. This service is supposed to end at 11:00 a.m. but often runs longer as the spirit moves among the worshippers. The black Pentecostals get the chapel at 11:00 a.m. but sometimes must wait while the white ones simmer down. I’ve heard stories of harsh words between the two groups, but so far no fights have erupted in the chapel. Once they get the pulpit, the black Pentecostals keep it throughout the afternoon.

It would be wrong to get the impression that Frostburg is filled with Bible-thumpers. It is not. It’s still a prison, and the majority of my fellow inmates would not be caught dead in a church service.

As I leave the chapel after the nondenominational service, a CO finds me and says, “They’re looking for you in the admin building.”

CHAPTER 17

A
gent Hanski is waiting with a new player in my game—Pat Surhoff, U.S. Marshal. We make our introductions and gather around a small table not far down the hall from the warden’s office. He, of course, would never be seen on the premises on a Sunday, and who could blame him?

Hanski whips out a document and slides it across. “Here’s the indictment,” he says. “Came down late Friday afternoon in Roanoke, still a secret, but it will be released to the press first thing in the morning.” I hold it like a brick of gold and have trouble focusing on the words.
United States of America versus Quinn Al Rucker
. It’s been stamped in the top right corner, with last Friday’s date in blue ink.

“The
Post
said the grand jury meets in the morning,” I manage to say, though it’s obvious what’s already happened.

“We’re playing the press,” Hanski says smugly. Smug, but a much nicer guy this time around. Our roles have changed dramatically. Once I had been a shifty-eyed con looking for a deal and probably scamming the system. Now, though, I’m the golden boy about to walk out of here and take some cash with me.

I shake my head and say, “I’m at a loss for words, guys. Help me here.”

Hanski is ready to pounce. “Here’s what we have in mind, Mr. Bannister.”

“How about Mal now?” I ask.

“Great. I’m Chris and he’s Pat.”

“Got it.”

“The Bureau of Prisons has just reassigned you to the medium-security joint at Fort Wayne, Indiana. Reason unknown, or not given. Some type of rule violation that pissed off the big guys. No visitors for six months. Solitary confinement. Anyone who’s curious can find you online with the Inmate Locator service, but they’ll soon hit a brick wall. After a couple of months in Fort Wayne, you’ll be reassigned again. The goal is to keep you moving throughout the system and buried in it.”

“I’m sure this will be quite easy for the bureau,” I say, and they both laugh. Man, have I changed teams or what?

“In a few minutes, we’ll do the handcuff and ankle-chain routine, for the last time, and walk you out of here, just like a normal transfer. You’ll get in an unmarked van with Pat and another marshal, and they’ll drive you west, headed for Fort Wayne. I’ll follow. Sixty miles down the road, just this side of Morgantown, we’ll stop at a motel where we have some rooms. You’ll change clothes, have some lunch, and we’ll talk about the future.”

“In a few minutes?” I say, shocked.

“That’s the plan. Is there anything in your cell that you cannot live without?”

“Yes. I have some personal stuff, paperwork and such.”

“Okay. We’ll get the prison to box up everything tomorrow and we’ll get it to you. It’s best if you don’t go back there. If someone saw you gathering your things, they might ask questions. We don’t want anyone here to know you’re leaving until you’re gone.”

“Got it.”

“No farewells and all that crap, okay?”

“Okay.” For a second I think about my friends here at Frostburg, but quickly let it go. This day is coming for all of them too, and once you’re free, you don’t look back. I doubt seriously if
friendships made in prison endure on the outside. And in my case, I will never be able to catch up with the old pals and reminisce. I am about to become another person.

“You have $78 in your prison account. We’ll forward that to Fort Wayne, and it’ll get lost in the system.”

“Screwed once more by the federal government,” I say, and again they think I’m funny.

“Any questions?” Hanski asks.

“Sure. How did you get him to confess? He’s too smart for that.”

“We were surprised, frankly. We used a couple of our veteran interrogators, and they have their methods. He mentioned a lawyer a couple of times but backed off. He wanted to talk, and he seemed overwhelmed by the fact that he’d been caught, not for the escape, but for the murder. He wanted to know how much we knew, so we kept talking. For ten hours. Through the night into the early morning. He didn’t want to leave and go to jail, so he stayed in the room. Once he became convinced that we knew what we knew, he broke down. When we mentioned the possibility of his family being indicted, along with most of his gang, he wanted to cut a deal. He eventually gave us everything.”

“And by everything you mean?”

“His story is basically what you told us. He bribed Judge Fawcett with $500,000 to save his nephew, and the judge screwed him. Kept the money and nailed the kid. In Quinn’s world, that’s a crime that cannot be forgiven and must be avenged. He stalked Judge Fawcett, trailed him to his cabin, broke in on the judge and his secretary, and got his revenge.”

“How much of the money was left?”

“About half of it. Quinn claims he broke into the judge’s apartment in Roanoke, went through everything, and couldn’t find the money. He suspected it was being kept somewhere else, somewhere safer. That’s why he followed Fawcett to the cabin. He overpowered the judge on the front porch and got inside. He
wasn’t sure the money was there but was determined to find its location. He did some bad things to the secretary and convinced Fawcett to find the money. Thus, the hidden safe. In Quinn’s mind, the money belonged to him.”

“And I guess he felt he had to kill them?”

“Oh sure. He couldn’t leave two witnesses behind. There’s no remorse, Mal. The judge had it coming; the secretary just got in the way. Now he’s facing two counts of capital murder.”

“So it’s a death penalty case?”

“Most likely. We’ve never executed anyone for killing a federal judge, and we’d love to make Quinn Rucker our first example.”

“Did he mention my name?” I ask, certain of the answer.

“Indeed he did. He strongly suspects you’re our source, and he’s probably plotting revenge. That’s why we’re here now, ready to go.”

I want to leave, but not so fast. “Quinn knows about Rule 35; in fact every federal inmate knows a lot about the rule. You solve a crime on the outside, and you get your sentence commuted. Plus, he thinks I’m a brilliant lawyer. He and his family will know that I’m out, not in prison, not in Fort Wayne or any other facility.”

“True, but let’s keep them guessing. It’s also important for your family and friends to believe you’re still locked up.”

“Are you worried about my family?” I ask.

Pat Surhoff finally speaks. “On some level, yes, and we can provide protection for them if you so choose. Doing so will obviously disrupt their lives.”

“They’ll never agree to it,” I reply. “My father would throw a punch if you mentioned it to him. He’s a retired state trooper who’s certain he can take care of himself. My son has a new father and a new life.” I cannot comprehend the phone call to Dionne to inform her that Bo might be in danger because of something I’ve done in prison. And there’s a part of me that does not believe Quinn Rucker would harm an innocent boy.

“We can discuss it later, if you’d like,” Surhoff says. “Let’s do that. I’m having far too many random thoughts right now.”

Hanski says, “Freedom awaits you, Mal.”

“Let’s get out of here.” I follow them down a hallway and to another building where three COs and the captain are waiting. I’m handcuffed and shackled at the ankles, then escorted down a sidewalk to a waiting van. An uninformed bystander would think I’m being led to my execution. A marshal named Hitchcock is behind the wheel. Surhoff slides the door shut beside me and climbs into the front passenger seat. Away we go.

I refuse to look back for a parting shot of Frostburg. I have enough images to last for years. I watch the countryside pass by and cannot suppress a smile. A few minutes later, we pull in to the parking lot of a shopping center. Surhoff jumps out, opens the sliding door, reaches over, and unlocks the handcuffs. Then he frees my ankles. “Congratulations,” he says warmly, and I decide that I like this guy. I hear the chains rattle for the last time and massage my wrists.

Soon, we accelerate onto Interstate 68 and head west. It’s almost springtime, and the rolling hills of far western Maryland are showing signs of life. The first few moments of freedom are almost overwhelming. For five years I have dreamed of this day, and it is exhilarating. There are so many thoughts competing for attention. I can’t wait to choose my own clothing, to put on a pair of jeans. I can’t wait to buy a car and drive anywhere I want. I long for the feel of a woman’s body and for the taste of a steak and a cold beer. I refuse to worry about the safety of my son and father. They will not be harmed.