The Racketeer by John Grisham
criminal and barely acknowledges my presence. Fine, I don’t care. It is evident that a lot of conversations have taken place between his office, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the FBI, and the Attorney General of the United States. At one point, I count eleven people around the table. The Rule 35 motion, with the attached agreement, has increased in size and runs for twenty-two pages. I have read every word five times. I even demanded some of my own language.
The agreement, in short, gives me everything I want. Freedom, a new identity, government protection, and the reward money of $150,000.
After the usual throat clearing, Judge Slater takes charge. “We will now go on the record,” he says, and his court reporter begins her stenography. “Even though this is a confidential matter and the court’s order will be sealed, I want a record of this hearing.” A pause as he shuffles papers. “This is a motion by the United States for Rule 35 relief. Bannister, have you read this entire motion, agreement, and proposed order?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“And I believe you are an attorney, or, shall I say, were an attorney.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Does the motion, agreement, and order meet your approval?”
Damn right it does, old boy. “Yes sir.”
He goes around the table and asks the same questions. It’s all a formality because everyone has already agreed. And, most important, the Attorney General has signed the agreement.
Slater looks at me and says, “You understand, Mr. Bannister, that if the name you provide does not lead to an indictment, then the agreement is null and void after twelve months, your sentence will not be commuted, and you will serve the remaining time in full?”
“Yes sir.”
“And that until there is an indictment you will remain in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons?”
“Yes sir.”
After more discussion about the terms of the agreement, Judge Slater signs the order and the hearing is over. He does not say farewell and I do not curse him the way I’d like to. Again, it’s a miracle that more federal judges are not whacked.
I am swarmed by an entourage and led down the stairs to a room where more dark suits are waiting. A video camera has been set up for my benefit, and Mr. Victor Westlake is pacing. I am asked to sit at the end of the table, face the camera, and offered something to drink. It’s a very nervous bunch, desperate to hear me utter the name.
CHAPTER 12
His name is Quinn Rucker, black male, aged thirty-eight, from Southwest D.C., convicted two years ago of distributing narcotics and sentenced to seven years. I met him at Frostburg. He walked away about three months ago and has not been seen since. He comes from a large family of drug dealers who’ve been active and successful for many years. These are not street dealers by any means. They are businessmen with contacts up and down the East Coast. They try to avoid violence but they are not afraid of it. They are disciplined, tough, and resourceful. Several have gone to prison. Several have been killed. To them, that’s just part of the overhead.”
I pause, take a breath. The room is silent.
At least five of the dark suits are taking notes. One has a laptop and has already pulled up the file on Quinn Rucker, who had made several cuts and was on the FBI’s top-fifty list of suspects, primarily because of his time with me at Frostburg and his escape from it.
“As I said, I met Quinn at Frostburg, and we became friends. Like a lot of inmates, he was convinced I could file a magic motion and get him out, but not in his case. He was not doing well in prison because Frostburg was his first gig. This happens to some of the new guys who have not seen other prisons. They don’t appreciate the camp atmosphere. Anyway, as his time dragged on he got restless. He couldn’t imagine doing five more years. He has a wife, a couple of kids, cash from the family business, and a lot of insecurities. He was convinced some of his cousins were moving in, taking over his role, stealing his share. I listened to a lot of this but didn’t swallow all of it. These gang guys are generally full of crap and like to exaggerate their stories, especially when it comes to money and violence. But I liked Quinn. He was probably the best friend I’ve made yet in prison. We never celled together but we were close.”
“Do you know why he walked away?” Victor Westlake asks.
“I think so. Quinn was selling pot and doing well. He was also smoking a lot of it. As you know, the quickest way out of a federal camp is to get caught with drugs or alcohol. Strictly prohibited. Quinn got word through a snitch that the COs knew about his business and they were about to bust him. He’s extremely smart and savvy, and he never kept the drugs in his cell. Like most of the guys who sell on the black market, he hid his inventory in common areas. The heat was on, and he knew if he got caught he’d be sent away to a tougher place. So he walked. I’m sure he didn’t walk far. Probably had someone waiting close by.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
I nod, take my time, say, “He has a cousin, don’t know his name, but he owns a couple of strip clubs in Norfolk, Virginia, near the naval base. Find the cousin, and you’ll find Quinn.”
“Under what name?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not Quinn Rucker.”
“How do you know this?”
“Sorry, but that’s none of your business.”
At this point, Westlake nods at an agent by the door, and he disappears. The search is on.
“Let’s talk about Judge Fawcett,” Westlake says.
“Okay,” I reply. I cannot count the number of times I have lived for this moment. I have rehearsed this in the darkness of my cell when I couldn’t sleep. I have written it in narrative form, then destroyed it. I have said the words out loud while taking long, lonely walks around the edges of Frostburg. It’s hard to believe this is finally happening.
“A big part of his gang’s business was running cocaine from Miami to the major cities along the East Coast, primarily the southern leg-Atlanta, Charleston, Raleigh, Charlotte, Richmond, and so on. Interstate 95 was the favored route because it is so heavily traveled, but the gang used every state highway and county road on the map. Most of it was mule running. They would pay a driver $5,000 to rent a car and haul a trunkload of coke to a distribution center in-pick a city. The mule would make the drop, then turn around and drive back to south Florida. According to Quinn, 90 percent of the coke snorted in Manhattan gets there in a car rented by a mule in Miami and driven north as if on legitimate business. Detection is virtually impossible. When mules are caught, it’s because someone snitched. Anyway, Quinn had a nephew who was working his way up the ladder of the family business. The kid was mule running, and he got caught speeding on Interstate 81 just outside of Roanoke. He was in a rented Avis van and said he was delivering antique furniture to a store in Georgetown. There was indeed furniture in the van, but the real cargo was cocaine with a street value of $5 million. The state trooper was suspicious and called for a backup. The nephew knew the rules and refused to allow a search of the van. The second trooper was a rookie, a real eager beaver, and he began poking around the cargo bay of the van. He had no warrant, no probable cause, and no permission to search. When he found the cocaine, he went ballistic and everything changed.”
I pause and take a sip of water. The agent with the laptop is pecking away, no doubt sending directives all over the East Coast.
“What is the nephew’s name?” Westlake asks.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think his last name was Rucker. Within his family, there are several last names and a fair number of aliases.”
“And so the nephew’s case was assigned to Judge Fawcett?” Westlake asks, prompting me along, though no one seems to be in a hurry. They’re hanging on every word and anxious to find Quinn Rucker, but they want the whole story.
“Yes, and Quinn hired a big lawyer in Roanoke, one who assured him the search was blatantly unconstitutional. If the search was thrown out by Fawcett, then so was the evidence. No evidence, no
“How much cash?” Westlake asks.
“Half a million.” This is met with great skepticism, and I am not surprised. “I found it hard to believe too. A federal judge taking a bribe. But then I was also shocked when an FBI agent was caught spying for the Russians. I guess under the right circumstances, a man will do just about anything.”
“Let’s stay on subject here,” Westlake says, irritated.
“Sure. Quinn and the family paid the bribe. Fawcett took the bribe. The case crept along until one day when there was a hearing on the nephew’s motion to exclude the evidence that was seized during a bad search. Much to everyone’s surprise, the judge ruled against the nephew, in favor of the government, and ordered a trial. With no defense, the jury found the kid guilty, but the lawyer felt good about their chances on appeal. The case is still rattling on appeal. In the meantime, the nephew is serving an eighteen-year sentence in Alabama.”
“This is a nice story, Mr. Bannister,” Westlake says, “but how do you know Quinn Rucker killed the judge?”
“Because he told me he was going to do it, out of revenge and to retrieve his money. He talked about it often. He knew exactly where the judge lived, worked, and liked to spend his weekends. He suspected the money was hidden somewhere in the cabin, and he firmly believed he wasn’t the only one who’d been ripped off by Fawcett. And, because he told me, Mr. Westlake, he will target me as soon as he’s arrested. I might walk out of prison, but I’ll always look over my shoulder. These people are very smart-look at your own investigation. Nothing. Not a clue. They hold grudges, and they are very patient. Quinn waited almost three years to kill the judge. He’ll wait twenty years to get me.”
“If he’s so smart, why would he tell you all of this?” Westlake asks.
“Simple. Like a lot of inmates, Quinn thought I could file some brilliant motion, find a loophole, and get him out of prison. He said he would pay me; said I would get half of whatever he took off Judge Fawcett. I’ve heard this before, and since. I looked at Quinn’s file and told him there was nothing I could do.”
They have to believe I’m telling the truth. If Quinn Rucker is not indicted, then I’ll spend the next five years in prison. We’re still on opposite sides, me and them, but we’re slowly reaching common ground.
CHAPTER 13
Six hours later, two black FBI agents paid the cover charge at the Velvet Club, three blocks away from the Norfolk Naval Base. They were dressed like construction workers and mixed easily with the crowd, which was half white, half black, half sailors, and half civilians. The dancers were also half-and-half, affirmative action all around. Two surveillance vans waited in the parking lot, along with a dozen more agents. Quinn Rucker had been spotted, photographed, and identified entering the club at 5:30. He worked as a bartender, and when he left his post at 8:45 to go to the restroom, he was followed. Inside the restroom, the two agents confronted him. After a brief discussion, they agreed to leave through a rear door. Quinn understood the situation and made no sudden moves. Nor did he seem surprised. As with many escapees, the end of the run was in many ways a relief. The dreams of freedom crumble under the challenges of living normally. Someone is always back there.
He was handcuffed and taken to the FBI office in Norfolk. In an interrogation room, the two black agents served him coffee and began a friendly chat. The crime was nothing more than an escape, and he had no defense. He was dead guilty and headed back to prison.
They asked Quinn if he was willing to answer a few basic questions about his escape some three months earlier. He said sure, why not? He volunteered that he had met an unnamed accomplice not far from the camp at Frostburg and had been driven back to D.C. He hung around there for a few days, but his presence was not well received. Escapees draw attention, and his boys did not appreciate the possibility of the FBI poking around and looking for him. He began muling cocaine from Miami to Atlanta, but the work was slow. He was damaged goods and his “syndicate,” as he called it, was wary of him. He saw his wife and kids occasionally, but knew the danger of getting too close to home. He spent time with an old girlfriend in Baltimore, but she, too, was less than excited about his presence. He drifted around, picking up an occasional drug run, then got lucky when his cousin gave him a job tending bar at the Velvet Club.
Next door, in a larger interrogation room, two of the FBI’s veteran interrogators were listening to the conversation. Another team was upstairs, waiting and listening. If things went well, it would be a long night for Quinn. Things had to go well for the FBI. With no physical evidence so far, it was imperative that the interrogation produce some proof. The FBI was worried, though, because they were dealing with a man who’d been around the block a few times. It was unlikely their suspect could be intimidated into saying much.
As soon as Quinn was taken out the back door of the Velvet Club, FBI agents cornered his cousin and demanded information. The cousin knew the ropes and had little to say until he was threatened with charges for harboring a fugitive. He had an impressive criminal record, state charges, and another indictment would likely send him back to the pen. He preferred life on the outside and began singing. Quinn was living and working under the assumed name of Jackie Todd, though his wages were being paid in cash and off the books. The cousin led the FBI agents to a run-down trailer park a half mile away and showed them the furnished mobile home Quinn was leasing month to month. Parked next to the trailer was a Hummer H3, 2008 model, with North Carolina license plates. The cousin explained that Quinn preferred to walk to work and hide the Hummer, weather permitting.
Within an hour, the FBI had a search warrant for the trailer and the Hummer, which was towed to a police lot in Norfolk, opened and examined. The main door of the mobile home was locked but flimsy. One good jolt with a bat hammer and the agents were inside. The place was remarkably neat and clean. Working with a purpose, six agents combed the place from side to side, twelve feet, and from end to end, fifty feet. In the only bedroom, between the mattress and the box spring, they found Quinn’s wallet, keys, and cell phone. The wallet contained about $500 in cash, a fake North Carolina driver’s license, and two prepaid Visa credit cards valued at $1,200 each. The cell phone was of the disposable, prepaid variety, perfect for a man on the run. Under the bed, the agents found a Smith amp; Wesson short-barrel, 38-caliber handgun, loaded with hollow-point bullets.
Handling it carefully, the agents immediately assumed it was the same handgun used to kill Judge Fawcett and Naomi Clary.
The key chain included a key to a mini-storage unit two miles away. In a drawer in the kitchen, an agent found Quinn’s home office-a couple of manila files with scant paperwork. One form, though, was a six-month lease agreement for a unit at Macon’s Mini-Storage, signed by Jackie Todd. The lead investigator called Roanoke, where a federal magistrate was on duty, and a search warrant was e-mailed back to Norfolk.
The file also included a North Carolina car title issued to Jackie Todd for the 2008 Hummer H3. No liens were noted; thus it was safe to assume Mr. Todd had paid in full, on the spot, either in cash or by check. No checkbook or bank statements were found in the drawer; none were expected. A bill of sale for the vehicle revealed that it was purchased on February 9, 2011, from a used-car lot in Roanoke. February 9 was two days after the bodies were found.
Fresh search warrant in hand, two agents entered Jackie Todd’s tiny unit at Macon’s Mini-Storage, under the careful and suspecting gaze of Mr. Macon himself. Concrete floor, unpainted cinder-block walls, a solitary lightbulb stuck in the ceiling. There were five cardboard boxes stacked against one wall. A quick look revealed some old clothes, a pair of muddy combat boots, a 9-millimeter Glock pistol with the registration number filed off, and, finally, a
Simultaneously, the name Jackie R. Todd was being run through the National Crime Information Center computer system. There was a hit, in Roanoke, Virginia.
At midnight, Quinn was moved next door and introduced to Special Agents Pankovits and Delocke. They began by explaining they were used by the FBI to interrogate escapees. This was nothing more than a routine briefing, a little fact-finding probe that they always enjoyed because who wouldn’t love to talk to an escapee and get all the details. It was late, and if Quinn wanted to get some sleep in the county jail, they would be happy to start first thing in the morning. He declined and said he would like to get it over with. Sandwiches and soft drinks were brought in. The mood was lighthearted and the agents were extremely cordial. Pankovits was white and Delocke was black, and Quinn seemed to enjoy their company. He nibbled on a ham-and-swiss while they told a story about an inmate who’d spent twenty-one years on the run. The FBI sent them all the way to Thailand to bring him home. What great fun.
They asked about his escape and movements in the days that followed it, questions and answers that had already been covered by his first interrogation. Quinn refused to identify his accomplice and gave them no names of anyone who had helped him along the way. This was fine. They did not press and seemed to have no interest in going after anyone else. After an hour of friendly chitchat, Pankovits remembered that they had not read him his Miranda rights. There was no harm in this, they said, because his crime was obvious and he had not implicated himself in anything other than the escape. No big deal, but if he wanted to continue, he would have to waive his rights. This he did by signing a form. By this time he was being called Quinn, and they were Andy, for Pankovits, and Jesse, for Delocke.
They carefully reconstructed his movements over the past three months, and Quinn did a surprisingly thorough job of recalling dates, places, and events. The agents were impressed and commended him on having such a fine memory. They paid particular attention to his earnings; all in cash of course, but how much for each job? “So, on the second run from Miami to Charleston,” Pankovits said, smiling at his notes, “the one a week after last New Year’s, Quinn, you got how much in cash?”
“I believe it was six thousand.”
“Right, right.”
Both agents scribbled furiously as if they believed every single word uttered by their subject. Quinn said he’d been living and working in Norfolk since mid-February, about a month. He lived with his cousin and a couple of his girlfriends in a large apartment not far from the Velvet Club. He was being paid in cash, food, drink, sex, and pot.
“So, Quinn,” Delocke said as he tallied up a pile of numbers, “looks to me as though you’ve earned about $46,000 since you left Frostburg, all cash, no taxes. Not bad for three months’ work.”
“I guess.”
“How much of this have you spent?” Pankovits asked.
Quinn shrugged as if it really didn’t matter now. “I don’t know. Most of it. It takes a lot of money to move around.”
“When you were running the drugs from Miami and back, how did you rent cars?” Delocke asked.
“I didn’t rent them. Someone else did, gave me the keys. My job was to drive carefully, slowly, and not get stopped by the cops.”
Fair enough, and both agents happily concurred. “Did you buy a vehicle?” Pankovits asked without looking up from his note taking.
“No,” Quinn said with a smile. Silly question. “You can’t buy a car when you’re on the run and have no papers.”
Of course not.
At the Freezer in Roanoke, Victor Westlake sat before a large screen, frozen at the image of Quinn Rucker. A hidden camera in the interrogation room was sending the video across the commonwealth to a makeshift room outfitted with an astonishing supply of gadgets and technology. Four other agents sat with Westlake, all staring at the eyes and expressions of Mr. Rucker.
“No way,” mumbled one of the other four. “This guy’s too smart for this. He knows we’ll find the trailer, the wallet, the fake ID, the Hummer.”
“Maybe not,” mumbled another. “Right now, it’s just an escape. He’s thinking we have no clue about the murder. This is nothing serious.”
“I agree,” said another. “I think he’s betting, playing the odds. He thinks he can survive a few questions, then get hauled back to jail and then to prison. He’s thinking he’ll call his cousin at some point and tell him to grab everything.”
“Wait and see,” said Westlake. “Let’s see how he reacts when the first bomb hits.”
At 2:00 a.m., Quinn said, “Can I use the restroom?”
Delocke stood and escorted him out of the room and down the hall. Another agent loitered about, a show of force. Five minutes later, Quinn was back in his seat.
Pankovits said, “It’s rather late, Quinn, you want to check in at the jail and get some sleep? We have plenty of time.”
“I’d rather be here than in the jail,” he said sadly. “How much more time you think I’ll get?” he asked.
Delocke replied, “Don’t know, Quinn. That’s up to the U.S. Attorney. Bad part is that they won’t send you back to a camp. Ever. You’re headed for a real prison.”
“You know, Jesse, I sorta miss the camp. Wasn’t so bad after all.”
“Why’d you leave it?”
“Stupid. Why? Because I could. Just walk away and nobody seemed to care.”
“We interview twenty-five guys a year who walk away from a federal camp. ‘Stupid,’ I think, is the best word.”
Pankovits shuffled some papers and said, “Now, Quinn, I think we’ve got a handle on the time line here. Dates, places, movements, cash earnings. All of this will be included in your pre-sentence report. The good part is that you didn’t do anything exceptionally bad over the past three months. Some drug running, which of course will not help you, but at least you didn’t hurt anyone, right?”
“Right.”
“And this is the complete story, right? Nothing left out? You’re telling us everything?”
“Yep.”
The two agents stiffened somewhat and frowned. Pankovits said, “What about Roanoke, Quinn? Did you spend any time in Roanoke?”
Quinn looked at the ceiling, gave it a thought, and said, “Maybe I passed