The Racketeer Read online

  protect me.

  “We did one last year,” Hitchcock says. “A big drug trial in New Jersey. The informant looked nothing like his old self, and we put a panel in front of the witness stand so only the judge and jury could see him. We used a voice-altering device, and the defendants had no idea who he was or what he looked like.”

  “They’ll certainly know who I am,” I say. “I just don’t want them to see me.”

  “All right,” Hanski says. “It’s your decision.”

  “Then consider it final,” I say.

  Hanski pulls out his cell phone and heads for the door. “Let me make some calls.”

  When he’s out of the room, Surhoff says, “Okay, while he’s doing that, can we talk about a destination? Give us some guidance here, Max, so we can get busy finding a place.”

  I say, “Florida. Except for the Marines, I’ve lived my entire life in the hills and mountains. I want a change of scenery, beaches and views of the ocean, a warmer climate.” I rattle this off as if I’ve spent hours contemplating it, which in fact I have. “Not south Florida, it’s too hot. Maybe Pensacola or Jacksonville, up north where it’s a bit milder.”

  The marshals absorb this, and I can see their minds racing. Surhoff begins hitting keys on his laptop, looking for my new place in the sun. I relax in a chair, my bare feet on the bed, and cannot help but relish where I am. It’s almost 4:00 p.m. Sunday afternoons were the worst days at Frostburg. Like most of the inmates, I didn’t work on the Sabbath and often grew bored. There were pickup basketball games and long walks on the jogging trail, anything to stay busy. Visitation was over, and those who had seen their families were usually subdued. Another week was beginning, one just like the last one.

  Slowly, the prison life is fading. I know it will be impossible to forget, but it’s time to start the process of putting it all behind me. Malcolm Bannister is still an inmate, somewhere, but Max Baldwin is a free man with places to go and things to see.

  After dark, we drive into Morgantown in search of a steak house. Along the way, we pass a strip club. Nothing is said, but I am sorely tempted. I have not seen a naked woman in five years, though I’ve certainly dreamed of them. However, I’m not sure gawking at a bunch of strippers will be that fulfilling at this point. We find the restaurant that’s been recommended and get a table: just three old pals having a nice dinner. Hanski, Surhoff, and I order the largest fillets on the menu, and I wash mine down with three draft beers. They stick with iced tea, but I can tell they envy my drinks. We turn in before ten, but sleep is impossible. I watch television for an hour, something I did little of at Frostburg.

  At midnight, I pick up the copy of the indictment Hanski left behind and read every word. There is no mention of a ballistics report or of any witnesses. There is a lengthy narrative about the crime scene, the bullet wounds, causes of death, the burn marks on Naomi Clary’s body, and the empty safe, but no descriptions of physical evidence. So far, Quinn’s confession is all they have. That, and the suspicion surrounding the cash in his possession. An indictment can be amended by the prosecution at almost any time, and this one needs some work. It appears to be a rush job intended to turn down the heat.

  I am not being critical; it’s a gorgeous document.

  CHAPTER 19

  For Stanley Mumphrey, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, the event would be the biggest moment yet in his brief career as a federal prosecutor. On the job for two years now, appointed by the President, he had found it all rather mundane, and though it was a fabulous addition to his resume, it was somewhat unfulfilling. Until, of course, Judge Fawcett and Ms. Clary were murdered. Instantly, Stanley’s career had new meaning. He had the hottest case in the country and, like many U.S. Attorneys, planned to make the most of it.

  The gathering was advertised as a press conference, though none of the authorities planned to answer any questions. It was a show, nothing more, nothing less. A carefully orchestrated act intended to (1) feed some egos and (2) let the public, especially the potential jurors, know that the Feds had their man, and his name was Quinn Al Rucker.

  By 9:00 a.m., the podium was covered with portable mikes, all advertising the television and radio stations from whence they came. The courtroom was packed with reporters of all stripes. Men with bulky cameras stepped on each other as they jockeyed for position, all under the watchful eyes of courtroom deputies.

  In the rule books and decisions that govern the practice and procedure of criminal law, at both the state and the federal levels, nowhere is it written that the “announcement” or “handing down” or “delivering” or “issuance” of an indictment must be publicized. In fact, almost none of them are. They are formally registered with the clerk once the grand jury makes its decision, and eventually served upon the defendant. An indictment is only one side of the case-the prosecution’s. Nothing contained within an indictment is evidence; at trial, the jury never sees it. The grand jury that issues an indictment hears only one side of the case, that presented by the government.

  Occasionally, though, an indictment is too hot, too important, just too damned much fun, to be allowed to flow benignly through the system. It must be publicized by those who’ve worked so hard to catch a criminal and who will bring him to justice. Stanley Mumphrey did nothing to apprehend Quinn Rucker, but he was certainly the man who would put him on trial. In the federal pecking order, the U.S. Attorney far outranks a mere FBI agent; therefore, the event belonged to Stanley. As was customary, he would share (reluctantly) the spotlight with the FBI.

  At 9:10, a door opened beside the bench, and a platoon of hard-nosed men in black suits flooded the space behind the podium. They jostled for position, all with their hands cupped over their balls. The arrangement here was crucial because the frame was only so wide. Standing at the podium, side by side, were Stanley Mumphrey and Victor Westlake-head prosecutor, head cop. Behind them were FBI agents and assistant prosecutors, inching together, squeezing, trying to find a good view of the cameras so the cameras could hopefully see them. The lucky ones would listen intently to Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake, and they would frown and act as if they had no clue there was a camera within two miles of the courthouse. It was the same pathetic routine perfected by members of Congress.

  “This morning, we have an indictment in the murder case of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary,” Mumphrey said slowly, his voice nervous and at least two octaves higher than normal. He’d been struggling in the courtroom, losing the slam dunk cases he assigned to himself, and the most common criticism was that he seemed jittery and out of place. Some felt that it was perhaps because he had spent so little time in the courtroom during his unremarkable ten-year career.

  Stanley picked up the indictment and held it higher, as if those watching were now expected to read the print. “This indictment is for two counts of murder. The defendant is one Quinn Al Rucker. And, yes, I fully expect to seek the death penalty in this case.” This last sentence was supposed to send ripples of drama through the crowd, but Stanley’s timing was off. Drama came quickly, though, when an aide flashed a large black-and-white photo of Quinn on a screen. Finally, the world saw the man who killed the judge and his secretary. Guilty!

  Reading shakily from his notes, Stanley gave the background on Quinn and managed to convey the impression that Quinn had escaped from prison for the sole purpose of exacting revenge against the judge. At one point, Victor Westlake, standing sentry-like at his shoulder, frowned and glanced down at his notes. But Stanley marched on, almost blubbering about his beloved friend and mentor Raymond Fawcett, how much the judge meant to him, and so on. His voice actually shook a bit when he tried to explain how honored he was to have the awesome responsibility of seeking justice for these “gruesome” murders. It would have taken about two minutes to read the entire indictment, then go home. But no. With a crowd like this, and millions watching, Stanley found it necessary to ramble on and give a speech, one about justice and the war on crime. After several
painful digressions, he got back on track near the end when it was time to hand off. He praised Victor Westlake and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation for its work, work that was “superhuman, tireless, and brilliant.”

  When he finally shut up, Westlake thanked him, though it was unclear if he was thanking him for shutting up or for passing along so many compliments. Westlake was far more experienced in these productions than young Stanley, and he spoke for five minutes without saying anything. He thanked his men, said he was confident the case had been solved, and wished the prosecution well. When he finished and took a step back, a reporter yelled a question. Westlake snapped, “No comment,” and indicated it was time to go. Stanley, though, wasn’t ready to leave all those cameras. For a second or two he smiled goofily at the crowd, as if to say, “Here I am.” Then Westlake whispered something to him.

  “Thank you,” Stanley said and backed away. The event was over.

  I watch the press conference in my Best Western room. The thought crosses my mind that, with Stanley in charge, Quinn may have a fighting chance after all. If the case goes to trial, though, Stanley will likely step aside and allow one of his seasoned assistants to handle matters. No doubt he’ll continue to work the media and begin plotting his run for a higher office, but the serious trial work will be done by the pros. Depending on how long things are delayed, Stanley might even be out of a job. He serves a four-year term, same as the President. When a challenger captures the White House, all U.S. Attorneys are terminated.

  When the press conference is over and the CNN talking heads begin babbling, I switch channels but find nothing of interest. Armed with the remote, I have total control over the television. I am adjusting to freedom with remarkable ease. I can sleep until I wake up. I can choose what I wear, though the choices so far are limited. Most important, there is no cell mate, no one else to contend with in a ten-by-twelve cube. I’ve measured the motel room twice-approximately sixteen feet wide and thirty feet long, including the bathroom. It’s a castle.

  By mid-morning, we’re on the road, going south now, on Interstate 79. Three hours later we arrive at the airport in Charleston, West Virginia, where we say farewell to Agent Chris Hanski. He wishes me well, and I thank him for his courtesies. Pat Surhoff and I board a commuter flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. I have no documentation, but the Marshals Service and the airline speak in code. I just follow Pat, and I have to admit I’m excited as I board the small plane.

  The airport in Charlotte is a large, open, modern place, and I stand on a mezzanine for two hours and watch the people come and go. I am one of them, a free man, and I will soon have the ability to walk to the counter and buy a ticket going anywhere.

  At 6:10, we board a nonstop flight to Denver. The code pulled off an upgrade, and Pat and I sit side by side in first class, compliments of the taxpayers. I have a beer and he has a ginger ale. Dinner is roasted chicken and gravy, and I suppose most of the passengers eat it for sustenance. For me, it’s fine dining. I have a glass of Pinot Noir, my first sip of wine in many years.

  Victor Westlake and his entourage left the press conference and drove four blocks to the downtown law office of Jimmy Lee Arnold. They presented themselves to the receptionist, who was expecting them. Within minutes, she led them down a narrow hall to a large conference room and offered coffee. They thanked her and declined.

  Jimmy Lee was a fixture in the Roanoke criminal bar, a twenty-year veteran of the drug and vice wars. He had represented Jakeel Staley, Quinn Rucker’s nephew, four years earlier. Like so many of the lone gunmen who labor near the fringes of the underworld, Jimmy Lee was a character. Long gray hair, cowboy boots, rings on his fingers, red-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. Though he was suspicious of the FBI, he welcomed them into his domain. These were not the first agents to visit; there had been many over the years.

  “So, you got an indictment,” he said as soon as the introductions were over. Victor Westlake gave a bare-bones summary of the case against Quinn Rucker. “You represented his nephew Jakeel Staley a few years back, right?”

  “That’s right,” Jimmy Lee said. “But I never met Quinn Rucker.”

  “I’m assuming the family, or the gang, hired you to represent the kid.”

  “Something like that. It was a private contract, not a court appointment.”

  “Who from the family did you deal with?”

  Jimmy Lee’s mood changed. He reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a small recorder. “Just to be safe,” he said as he pressed a button. “Let’s get this on the record. There are three of you, one of me. I wanna make sure there’s no misunderstanding of what’s said. Any problems with this?”

  “No,” Westlake replied.

  “Good. Now, you asked me who I dealt with from the family when I was hired to represent Jakeel Staley, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I can answer that. Client confidentiality and all. Why don’t you tell me why you’re interested in this?”

  “Sure. Quinn Rucker gave a confession. Said he killed Judge Fawcett because the judge reneged on a bribe; said he, the gang, paid $500,000 cash to Fawcett for a favorable ruling on the motion to suppress the search that yielded a van-load of coke.” Westlake paused and watched Jimmy Lee carefully. Jimmy Lee’s eyes yielded nothing. He finally shrugged and said, “So?”

  “So, did you have any knowledge of this bribe?”

  “If I knew about it, then that would be a crime, wouldn’t it? You think I’m stupid enough to admit to a crime. I’m offended.”

  “Oh, don’t be offended, Mr. Arnold. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “Did Quinn Rucker implicate me in the bribe?”

  “He’s been vague so far, said only that a lawyer was the intermediary.”

  “I’m sure this particular gang of thugs has access to a lot of lawyers.”

  “Indeed. Were you surprised when Judge Fawcett denied the motion to suppress?”

  Jimmy Lee smiled and rolled his eyes. “Nothing surprises me anymore. If you believe in the Constitution, then it was a bad search and the evidence, 150 kilos of pure coke, should have been kicked out. That would take some spine, and you don’t see much of that anymore, especially in big drug busts. It takes balls for a judge, state or federal, to exclude such wonderful evidence, regardless of what the cops did to get it. No, I wasn’t surprised.”

  “How long did you practice in Judge Fawcett’s courtroom?”

  “Since the day he was appointed, twenty years ago. I knew him well.”

  “Do you believe he would take a bribe?”

  “A cash bribe for a favorable ruling?”

  “And a lighter sentence.”

  Jimmy Lee crossed his legs, hanging one ostrich-skin boot on a knee, and locked his hands together just below his gut. He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ve seen judges make some outrageous decisions, but usually out of stupidity or laziness. But, no, Mr. Westlake, I do not believe Judge Fawcett, or any other state or federal judge within the Commonwealth of Virginia, would take a bribe, cash or otherwise. I said nothing surprises me, but I was wrong. Such a bribe would shock me.”

  “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 invol
ved 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 attache 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.”