The Racketeer (46 page)

Authors: John Grisham

BOOK: The Racketeer

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At some unknown and unknowable point in the future, the remaining 488 bars will be equally divided among Quinn, Vanessa, and me. That’s not important now—the urgency is in getting the stuff out of this country. It will take a long time to slowly convert the gold to cash, but we’ll worry about that much later. For the moment, we are content to pass the hours drinking, laughing, and taking turns telling our version of the events. When Vanessa replays the moment in Nathan’s house when she stripped naked and confronted his buddies at the front door, we laugh until it’s painful. When Quinn recounts the meeting with Stanley Mumphrey in which he blurted out the fact that he knew Max Baldwin had left witness protection and left Florida, he imitates Mumphrey’s wild-eyed reaction to this startling news. When I describe my second meeting with Hassan and trying to count 122 stacks of $100 bills in a busy coffee shop, they think I’m lying.

The stories continue until 3:00 a.m., when we’re too drunk to go on. Dee Ray covers the gold with a quilt and I volunteer to sleep on the sofa.

CHAPTER 44

W
e slowly come to life hours later. The hangovers and fatigue are offset by the excitement of the task at hand. For a young man who has lived on the fringes of an operation adept at smuggling illegal substances into the country, the challenge of smuggling our gold out is light lifting for Dee Ray. He explains that we are now avid scuba divers, and he has purchased an astonishing collection of gear, all of it stored in heavy, official U.S. Divers brand nylon duffel bags, each with a solid zipper and a small padlock. We hustle around the condo removing masks, snorkels, fins, regulators, tanks, weight belts, buoyancy compensators, gauges, dry suits, even spearguns, none of which has ever been used. It will be on eBay within a month. The gear is replaced by an assortment of smaller U.S. Divers snorkel backpacks and dry bags, all filled with gold mini-bars. The weight of each bag is tested and retested by the men to see how much can be carried. The bags are bulky and heavy, but then they would be if filled with scuba gear. In addition, Dee Ray has accumulated a variety of luggage, the sturdiest cases he could, and all on rollers. We place the gold in shoes, shaving kits, makeup bags, even two small tackle boxes for deep-sea fishing. When we add a few items of clothing for the trip, our bags and gear seem heavy enough to sink a fine boat. The weight is important because we do not want to raise suspicion. Of much greater significance, though, is
the fact that all 524 bars are now packed, under lock and key, and safe, or so we pray.

Before we leave, I take a look around the condo. It is littered with diving gear and packing debris. On the kitchen table, I see empty Lavo cigar boxes and have a twinge of nostalgia. They served us well.

At ten, a large van arrives and we load the scuba duffels and the luggage inside. There’s barely enough room for the four of us. Vanessa sits in my lap. Fifteen minutes later we pull in to a parking lot at the Washington Marina. Its piers are lined with slips and hundreds of boats of all shapes rock gently on the water. The larger ones are at the far end. Dee Ray points in that direction and tells the driver where to go.

The yacht is a sleek, beautiful vessel, a hundred feet long, three decks high, brilliant white, and called
Rumrunner
, which seems vaguely appropriate. It sleeps eight comfortably and has a crew of ten. A month earlier, Dee Ray chartered it for a quick cruise to Bermuda, so he knows the captain and the crew. He calls them by name as we spill out and start grabbing bags. Two porters help with the scuba duffels and strain under the weight. But then, they’ve dealt with serious divers before. Passports are collected by the steward and taken to the bridge. Quinn’s is fake, and we’re holding our breath.

It takes an hour to inspect our quarters, get ourselves situated, and settle in for the ride. Dee Ray explains to the deckhands that we want the scuba gear in our cabins because we are fanatical about our equipment. They schlep it up from storage and haul it to our rooms. When the engines come to life, we change into shorts and congregate on the lower deck. The steward brings the first bottle of champagne and a tray of shrimp. We motor slowly through the harbor and into the Potomac. From passing boats, we get some looks. Perhaps it’s unusual to see a yacht loaded with African-Americans. This is a white man’s game, right?

The steward returns with all four passports and wants to chat.
I explain that I have just bought a place in Antigua, and we’re going down for a party. He eventually asks what I do for a living (in other words, Where is this money coming from?), and I tell him I’m a filmmaker. When he’s gone we toast my favorite actor—Nathan Cooley. Soon we’re in the Atlantic and the coast fades away.

Our cabin is large by boat standards, which isn’t very big at all. With four pieces of luggage and two scuba duffels we have trouble moving about. The bed, though, works fine. Vanessa and I have a quickie, then sleep for two hours.

Three days later we ease into Jolly Harbour, on the west end of Antigua. Sailing is serious business on the island and the bay is crowded with moored boats of all sizes. We ease past them, barely inching along, leaving almost no wake as we take in the views of the mountains on all sides. The big yachts are docked together at one of the piers, and our captain slowly maneuvers the
Rumrunner
into a slip between two other fine ships, one about our size and the other much larger. In this fleeting moment of living like the rich, we find it impossible not to compare the lengths of the yachts. We stare at the larger one and think, Who owns it? What does he do? Where is he from? And so on. Our crew scurries around to secure the boat, and after the engines die the captain collects passports again and steps onto the pier. He walks about a hundred feet to a small Customs building, goes inside, and does the paperwork.

A week earlier, when I was killing time and waiting on Vanessa to arrive on Antigua, I sniffed around the dock at Jolly Harbour until a yacht arrived. I watched the captain go to the Customs building, just as ours is doing now. And, more important, I noted that no one from Customs inspected the boat.

The captain returns; everything is in order. We have arrived
on Antigua with the gold and with no suspicions. I explain to the steward that we want to move the scuba gear to my villa because it will be easier to use from there. And while we’re at it, we’ll take the luggage as well. We’ll probably use the yacht to dive around the islands, and for a long dinner or two, but for the first day or so we’ll stay at my place. The steward is fine with this, whatever we wish, and calls for taxis. While they are en route, we help the deckhands unload our bags and duffels onto the dock. It’s quite a pile, and no one would suspect we’re hiding $8 million in gold in luggage and scuba gear.

It takes three taxis to haul everything, and as we load up we wave good-bye to the steward and the captain. Twenty minutes later we arrive at the villa in Sugar Cove. When everything is inside, we exchange high fives and jump in the ocean.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is indeed a work of fiction, and more so than usual. Almost nothing in the previous 340-odd pages is based on reality. Research, hardly a priority, was rarely called upon. Accuracy was not deemed crucial. Long paragraphs of fiction were used to avoid looking up facts. There is no federal camp at Frostburg, no uranium lawsuit (yet), no dead judge to inspire me, and no acquaintance in prison scheming to get out, at least not to my knowledge.

Inevitably, though, even the laziest of writers need some foundation for their creations, and I was occasionally at a loss. As always, I relied on others. Thanks to Rick Middleton and Cal Jaffe of the Southern Environmental Law Center. In Montego Bay, I was assisted by the Honorable George C. Thomas and his staff of fine young lawyers.

Thanks also to David Zanca, John Zunka, Ben Aiken, Hayward Evans, Gaines Talbott, Gail Robinson, Ty Grisham, and Jack Gernert.

ALSO BY JOHN GRISHAM

A Time to Kill

The Firm

The Pelican Brief

The Client

The Chamber

The Rainmaker

The Runaway Jury

The Partner

The Street Lawyer

The Testament