The Racketeer (20 page)

“Would you say Judge Fawcett had a reputation for high integrity?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. He was okay his first few years on the bench, then he changed and became a real hard-ass. My clients have all been charged with crimes, but they’re not all criminals. Fawcett didn’t see it that way. He was much too happy to send a
guy away for twenty years. He always sided with the prosecution and the cops, and to me that’s not integrity.”

“But he didn’t take money?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Here’s our quandary, Mr. Arnold. If Quinn Rucker is telling the truth, then how did he manage to get the money to Fawcett? Here’s a tough street kid from D.C. who’s never met Fawcett before. There had to be an intermediary somewhere along the line. I’m not saying it’s you, and there’s no suggestion that you’re involved in his story. But you know the system. How did the $500,000 change hands?”

Jimmy Lee was shaking his head. “If the system involves bribery, then I don’t know how it works, okay? I resent the implication. You’re talking to the wrong man.”

“Again, I’m not implicating or accusing you of anything.”

“You’re getting pretty damned close.” Jimmy Lee slowly got to his feet and reached for the recorder. “Let’s say this little meeting is over.”

“No need for that, Mr. Arnold.”

Jimmy Lee picked up the recorder and returned it to a pocket. “It’s been a real pleasure,” he said as he yanked open the door and disappeared down the hall.

Directly across Church Street, Dee Ray Rucker was entering another law office as Victor Westlake and his agents left Jimmy Lee’s.

Quinn had been arrested the previous Wednesday night and had spent the first ten hours of his captivity in the interrogation room. After he confessed, on camera, he was finally taken to the Norfolk City Jail, placed in solitary, and slept for twelve straight hours. He was not allowed to use the phone until Saturday morning, and it took most of the day to reach a family member who
was willing to talk. Early Saturday evening, Quinn was driven from Norfolk to Roanoke, a four-and-a-half-hour journey.

Once Dee Ray realized his older brother was in jail for killing a federal judge, he scrambled to find a lawyer who would take the case. Several in D.C. and Virginia declined. By late Sunday afternoon, another Roanoke character named Dusty Shiver had agreed to represent Quinn through the initial stages of the prosecution, but he reserved the right to step down if a trial became imminent. For obvious reasons, the local bar was more than a little nervous about representing a man charged with knocking off such an important part of the judiciary.

Dusty Shiver had once practiced law with Jimmy Lee Arnold, and they were cut from the same mold. In law, most partnerships, large and small, blow up, usually over the issue of money. Jimmy Lee got stiffed on a fee, blamed his partners, and moved across the street.

Dusty had managed to spend an hour with Quinn at the jail early Monday morning, before the indictment was announced. He was surprised to learn his client had already confessed. Quinn was adamant that he was coerced, tricked, pressured, threatened, and that the confession was bogus. He was claiming to be innocent. After leaving the jail, Dusty stopped by the U.S. Attorney’s office and picked up a copy of the indictment. He was poring over it when his secretary buzzed in with the report that Mr. Dee Ray Rucker had arrived.

Of the two, Dusty, with long gray hair, faded jeans, and a red leather vest, looked more like a drug trafficker, and Dee Ray, in a Zegna suit, looked more like a lawyer. They greeted each other cautiously in Dusty’s cluttered office. The first issue was the retainer, and Dee Ray opened his Prada attaché and produced $50,000 in cash, which Dusty counted and stuck in a drawer.

“Do you know he’s already confessed?” Dusty asked as he tucked the money away.

“He what?” asked Dee Ray, shocked.

“Yes, he’s confessed. He says he signed a written statement admitting to the murders, and supposedly there’s also a video. Please tell me he’s too smart for that.”

“He’s too smart for that. We never talk to cops, never. Quinn would not voluntarily confess to anything, even if he was dead guilty. That’s not our M.O. If a cop shows up, we start calling lawyers.”

“He says the interrogation lasted all night long, he waived his rights, asked for a lawyer several times, but the two FBI agents kept hammering away. They tripped him up, got him confused, and he began hallucinating. He couldn’t shut up. They said he was facing two counts of capital murder and that the entire family would be indicted since the killings were a part of gang business. They lied to him and said they could help him if he cooperated, that the family of Judge Fawcett was opposed to the death penalty, and so on. After hours of this, they broke him and he gave them what they wanted. Says he doesn’t remember all that happened; he was too fatigued. When he woke up and tried to recall what had happened, it was all a dream, a nightmare. It took several hours before he realized what he had done, but even now he can’t remember everything.”

Dee Ray listened, too stunned to speak.

Dusty continued, “He does remember the FBI agents telling him that they have a ballistics report that matches one of his guns to the crime scene, and there is supposedly a boot print of some sort. Plus, there are witnesses who place him in the vicinity at the time of the murders. Again, some of this is vague.”

“When can you see the confession?”

“I’ll meet with the U.S. Attorney as soon as possible, but nothing will happen fast. It might be weeks before I see a written confession and the video, as well as the other evidence they plan to use.”

“If he asked for a lawyer, why didn’t they stop the interrogation?”

“That’s a great question. Usually, though, the cops will swear that the defendant waived his rights and did not ask for a lawyer. His word against theirs. In a case this important, you can bet the FBI agents will swear to hell and back that Quinn never mentioned a lawyer. Just like they’ll swear they did not threaten him, or lie to him, or promise him a deal. They got their confession, now they’re trying to build a case with physical evidence. If they find nothing, then the confession is all they have.”

“Is it enough?”

“Oh yes.”

“I don’t believe this. Quinn’s not stupid. He would never agree to an interrogation.”

“Has he ever killed anyone before?”

“Not that I know of. We have other people who do that sort of thing.”

“Why did he escape from prison?”

“You ever been to prison?”

“No.”

“Neither have I, but I know lots of guys who’ve served time. Everybody wants out.”

“I suppose,” Shiver said. “You ever heard of a guy named Malcolm Bannister?”

“No.”

“Quinn says they served time together at Frostburg and that he’s the guy who’s behind these accusations; says he and Bannister were friends and talked at length about Judge Fawcett and his dirty work. He’s really bitter at Bannister.”

“When can I see my brother?”

“Not until Saturday, regular visitation. I’ll go back to the jail this afternoon with a copy of the indictment. I can pass along any messages if you’d like.”

“Sure, tell him to keep his mouth shut.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

CHAPTER 20

T
he details are vague and unlikely to become clearer. Pat Surhoff is willing to tell me that the clinic is a part of the U.S. Army hospital at Fort Carson, but that would be hard to deny. He cautiously says that the clinic specializes in RAM—radical appearance modification—and is used by several agencies of the federal government. The plastic surgeons are some of the best and have worked on a lot of faces that might otherwise get blown off if not radically modified. I grill him just to watch him squirm, but he does not divulge much else. After my surgery, I will convalesce here for two months before moving on.

My first appointment is with a therapist of some variety who wants to make sure I’m ready for the jolting experience of changing not only names but faces as well. She’s pleasant and thoughtful, and I easily convince her that I’m eager to move on.

The second meeting is with two doctors, both male, and a female nurse. The woman is needed for the feminine perspective of how I will look afterward. It doesn’t take me long to realize that these three are very good at what they do. Using sophisticated software, they are able to take my face and make almost any change. The eyes are crucial here, they say more than once. Change the eyes and you change everything. Sharpen the nose a bit. Leave the lips alone. Some Botox in the folds of the cheeks should work. Definitely shave the head and keep it that way. For
almost two hours we fiddle and tinker with the new face of Max Baldwin.

In the hands of less experienced surgeons, this might be a gut-wrenching experience. For the past twenty-five years, all of my adult life, I have looked basically the same, my face shaped by genetics, weathered by the years, and, luckily, unblemished by wounds or injuries. It’s a nice, solid face that’s served me well, and to suddenly ditch it forever is no small step. My new friends say there is no need to change anything, only a few ways to improve. A nip here, a tuck there, a bit of tightening and straightening, and, voilà, a new version that’s every bit as handsome and much safer. I assure them I’m much more concerned with safety than vanity, and they readily agree. They’ve heard this before. I cannot help but wonder how many informants, snitches, and spies they’ve worked on. Hundreds, judging by their teamwork.

As my new look comes together on the large computer screen, we have serious discussions about accessories, and the three seem genuinely excited when a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses is placed on Max’s face. “That’s it!” the nurse says excitedly, and I have to admit Max looks a lot smarter and hipper. We spend an entire half hour playing around with various mustache schemes, before tossing the idea altogether. We split 2–2 on the idea of a beard, then decide to just wait and see. I promise not to shave for a week so we’ll have a better idea.

Because of the gravity of what we’re doing, my little team is in no hurry. We spend the entire morning redesigning Max, and when everyone is happy, they print a high-definition rendering of my new look. I take it with me back to my room and tack it to the wall. A nurse studies it and says she likes it. I like her too, but she’s married and does not flirt. If she only knew.

I pass the afternoon reading and walking around the unrestricted areas of the base. It’s much like killing time at Frostburg, a place far away in both distance and memory. I keep coming back to my room, to the face on the wall: a slick head, slightly
pointed nose, slightly enhanced chin, leaner cheeks, no wrinkles, and the eyes of someone new. The middle-aged puffiness is gone. The eyelids are not quite as large. Most important, Max is staring through a pair of round designer frames, and he looks pretty damned hip.

I’m assuming it’s just that easy, that these doctors can deliver a face that looks exactly like Max on the wall. But even if they get close, I’ll be pleased. No one will recognize their new creation, and that’s all that matters. I’m too close to judge whether I’ll look better before or after, but the truth is that I’ll look good enough. Safety is indeed far more important than vanity.

At seven the next morning, they prep me and roll me into a small operating room. The anesthesiologist goes through his routine, and I happily float away.

The operation lasts for five hours and is a great success, according to the doctors. They have no way of knowing because my face is wrapped like a mummy’s. It will be weeks before the swelling is all gone and the new features take shape.

Four days after he was indicted, Quinn Rucker made his initial appearance in court. For the occasion, he was kept in the same orange jumpsuit he’d been wearing since his arrival at the Roanoke City Jail. He was handcuffed and chained to his waist, and his ankles were bound and chained. A bulletproof vest was strapped over his shoulders and around his midsection, and no fewer than a dozen heavily armed guards, agents, and deputies escorted him out of the jail and into a bulletproof Chevrolet Suburban. No threats had been made on his life and a secret route would be taken to the federal courthouse, but the authorities were taking no chances.