The Racketeer (35 page)

No kidding, Rash. I listen intently.

“Did you know this?” he asks.

“Of course not,” I reply. I assume Rashford has never chartered a private jet and therefore does not know the routine.

“But much worse,” he continues, “he tried to smuggle in a handgun and four kilos of cocaine.”

“Four kilos of cocaine,” I repeat, acting as shocked as possible.

“Found the powder in two nylon first-aid kits in his gym bag, along with a small pistol. What a fool.”

I’m shaking my head in disbelief. “He mentioned buying drugs once he got here but said nothing about smuggling the stuff in.”

“How well do you know this gentleman?” Rashford asks.

“I just met him a week ago. We’re not exactly close friends. I know he has a history of drug violations in the States, but I had no idea he was an idiot.”

“Well, he is. And he’ll probably be spending the next twenty years in one of our fine prisons.”

“Twenty?!”

“Five for the coke, fifteen for the gun.”

“That’s outrageous. You gotta do something, Rashford!”

“The options are limited, but allow me to go about my business.”

“What about me? Am I okay down here? I mean, they checked my bags at Customs and everything was cool. I’m not an accomplice or guilty by association, right?”

“As of now, nothing. But I suggest you leave as soon as possible.”

“I can’t leave until I see Nathan. I mean, I gotta help this guy, you know?”

“There’s not much you can do, Reed. They found the coke and the gun in his bag.”

I start pacing around the small room, deep in thought, worried sick. Rashford watches me for a moment, then says, “They’ll probably allow me to see Mr. Coley. I know the boys at the jail, see them all the time. You’ve hired the right lawyer, Reed, but, again, I’m not sure what can be done.”

“How often do you see this—American tourists busted for drugs down here?”

He thinks about this, then says, “Happens all the time, but not like this. The Americans get caught on the way out, not bringing the stuff in. It’s rather unusual, but the drug charges are not that crucial. We’re soft on drugs but hard on guns. We have very tough laws, especially with handguns. What was this boy thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Allow me to go see him and make contact.”

“I need to see him too, Rashford. You gotta work this out. Lean on your friends at the jail and talk them into it.”

“It might take some cash.”

“How much?”

He shrugs and says, “Not much. Twenty bucks U.S.”

“I got that.”

“Allow me to see what I can do.”

CHAPTER 35

T
he pilots are calling my cell phone, but I refuse to answer. Devin leaves four frantic voice mails, all pretty much the same: the police have seized the airplane and the pilots have been told they cannot leave the island. They are staying at the Hilton, but not having any fun. Their office in Raleigh is screaming and everybody wants answers. The pilots are taking the heat for submitting a fake passport and will probably lose their jobs. The airplane’s owner is threatening, and so on.

I don’t have the time to worry about these people. I’m sure a man who owns a $30 million jet can figure out a way to get it back.

At 2:00 p.m., Rashford and I leave his office and he drives us ten minutes to the police department. The city jail is attached to it. He parks in a crowded lot and nods at a low-slung, flat-roofed building with narrow slits for windows and razor wire for decoration. We walk down a sidewalk and Rashford says a pleasant hello to the guards and orderlies.

He goes to a door and whispers with a guard he obviously knows. I watch without being obvious and no cash changes hands. At a desk, we sign a sheet on a clipboard. “I told them you’re a
lawyer working with me,” he whispers as I scribble one of my names. “Just act like a lawyer.”

If he only knew.

Rashford waits in a long narrow room the lawyers use for meetings if the police are not using it for anything else. There is no air-conditioning and the room feels like a sauna. After a few minutes, the door opens and Nathan Coley is shoved inside. He looks wild-eyed at Rashford, then turns to his guard, who leaves and closes the door. Nathan slowly sits down on a metal stool and gawks at Rashford. The lawyer thrusts a business card at him and says, “I’m Rashford Watley, attorney. Your friend Reed Baldwin has hired me to look into this situation.”

Nathan takes the card and inches the stool closer. His left eye is partially closed and his left jaw is swollen. There is dried blood at the corner of his lips. “Where’s Reed?” he asks.

“He’s here. He is very concerned and wants to see you. Are you okay, Mr. Coley? Your jaw is swollen.”

Nathan looks at the large, round black face and tries to absorb the words. It’s English all right, but with a strange accent. He wants to correct this guy and explain that it’s “Cooley” not “Coley,” but then maybe the guy is trying to say “Cooley,” but it just comes out differently in Jamaica.

“Are you all right, Mr. Coley?” the lawyer repeats.

“I’ve had two fights in the past two hours. Lost both of them. You gotta get me outta here, Mr.…” He looks at the card but can’t focus on the words.

“It’s Watley. Mr. Watley.”

“Fine, Mr. Watley. This is a big misunderstanding. I don’t know what happened, what went wrong, but I ain’t guilty of anything. I didn’t use a fake passport and I damned sure didn’t try to smuggle in drugs and a gun. Somebody planted that stuff in
my bag, you got that? That’s the truth and I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles. I don’t use drugs, don’t sell ’em, and I damned sure don’t smuggle them. I want to talk to Reed.” He sort of spits his words through clenched teeth and rubs his jaw as he talks.

“Is your jaw broken?” Rashford asks.

“I ain’t no doctor.”

“I’ll try to get one, and I’ll try to get you moved to another cell.”

“They’re all the same—hot, overcrowded, and dirty. You gotta do something, Mr. Watley. And fast. I’ll never survive in here.”

“You’ve been in prison before, I think.”

“I just spent a few years in a federal pen, but nothing like this. I just thought that was bad. This is pure hell. I got fifteen guys in my cell, all black but me, with two beds and a hole in the corner to piss in. No air-conditioning and no food. Please, Mr. Watley, do something.”

“You’re facing very serious charges, Mr. Coley. If convicted as charged, you could be sentenced to twenty years in prison.”

Nathan drops his head and takes a deep breath. “I won’t last a week.”

“I’m confident I can get a reduction, but still you’re facing a lot of time. And not in a city jail like this. They’ll send you away to one of our regional prisons where the conditions are not always as pleasant.”

“Then give me a plan. You’ve got to explain to the judge or whoever that this is all a mistake. I’m not guilty, okay? You gotta make somebody believe that.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Coley. But the system has to run its course, and unfortunately things move rather slowly here in Jamaica. The court will schedule your first appearance in a few days, then formal charges will be handed down.”

“What about bail? Can I post a bond and get outta here?”

“I’m working on that now with a bail bondsman, but I’m
not optimistic. The court would consider you a flight risk. How much money is at your disposal?”

Nathan snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I had a thousand bucks in my wallet, wherever it happens to be now. I’m sure the money’s gone. I had five hundred bucks in my pocket too, and it’s gone. They’ve picked me clean. I got a few assets back home but nothing liquid. I’m not a rich man, Mr. Watley. I’m a thirty-year-old ex-con who was in prison about six months ago. My family has nothing.”

“Well, the court will look at the amount of cocaine and the private jet and think otherwise.”

“The cocaine is not mine. I never saw it, never touched it. It was planted, okay, Mr. Watley? So was the gun.”

“I believe you, Mr. Coley, but the court will likely be more skeptical. The court hears such stories all the time.”

Nathan opened his mouth slowly and picked at the dried blood at the corner of his lips. He was obviously in pain and shock.

Rashford stood and said, “Keep your seat. Reed’s here. If anyone asks, tell them he’s just one of your lawyers.”

Nathan’s battered face lights up somewhat when I enter. I sit on my stool, less than three feet from him. He wants to yell but he knows someone is listening. “What the hell is happening here, Reed? Talk to me!”

My act at this point is that of a frightened man who is not sure what will happen tomorrow. “I don’t know, Nathan,” I say nervously. “I’m not under arrest but I can’t leave the island. I found Rashford Watley first thing this morning and we’re trying to figure it all out. All I remember is that we got real drunk real fast. Stupid. Got that. You passed out on the sofa and I was barely awake. At some point, one of the pilots called me up to the cockpit and explained that air traffic around Miami was grounded
because of weather. Tornado warnings, a tropical storm, really bad stuff. Miami International was closed. The system was moving north, so we circled to the south and were diverted over the Caribbean. We circled and circled and I really can’t remember all of what happened. I tried to wake you but you were snoring.”

“I don’t remember blacking out,” he says, tapping his sore jaw.

“Does a drunk ever remember passing out? No, he does not. You were bombed, okay? You had been drinking before we took off. Anyway, at some point we were getting low on fuel and had to land. According to the pilots, we were directed here, to Montego Bay, to refuel, then we were supposed to leave for Miami, where the weather had cleared. I’m drinking coffee by the gallon and so I remember most of what happened. When we land, the captain says just stay on the plane; we’ll only be here for twenty minutes. Then he says that Immigration and Customs want to take a look. We’re ordered off the plane, but you’re in a coma and can’t move. You barely have a pulse. They call an ambulance and everything starts going wrong.”

“What’s this shit about a fake passport?”

“My mistake. We fly into Miami International all the time, and they often want to see a passport, even for domestic flights, especially private ones. I think it goes back to the drug wars in the 1980s when a lot of private jets were used to haul drug lords and their entourages. Now, with the war on terror, they like to see a passport. It’s not mandatory to have one, but it’s very helpful. I got a guy in D.C. who can produce one overnight for a hundred bucks, and I asked him to crank one out for you, just in case we needed it. I had no idea it would become an issue.”

Poor Nathan does not know what to believe. I have the benefit of months of preparation. He’s getting hit fast and furious and is thoroughly bewildered.

“Believe me, Nathan, a fake passport is the least of your worries.”

“Where’d the coke and the gun come from?” he asks.

“The police,” I say casually but with certainty. “It wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, so that narrows the list of suspects. Rashford says this is not unheard of on the island. A private jet from America arrives with a couple of rich guys on board—rich, otherwise they wouldn’t be buzzing around on such a fine airplane. One of the rich dudes is so drunk he can’t hit his ass with both hands. Blacked-out drunk. They get the sober guy off the plane and get the pilots distracted with paperwork, and when the timing is perfect, they plant the drugs. Stuff it in a bag, just that simple. A few hours later, the jet is officially seized by the Jamaican government, and the trafficker is placed under arrest. It’s all about money, cash.”