(1976) The R Document (21 page)

Adcock reached to the dashboard and cut off the headlights. He indicated the silhouettes beyond. ‘There are some

tough cookies in that maximum-security hole,’ he said.

‘Some,’ said Tynan. ‘Donald Radenbaugh isn’t one of them. He’s one of the softies, one of the political prisoners.’

‘I didn’t know he was a political prisoner.’

‘He isn’t, technically. Yet he is. He knew too much about what went on up there. That can be an offense, too.’

Tynan fidgeted in the darkness of the front seat, looking through the windshield and waiting.

Several minutes had passed when Adcock tugged at Tynan’s sleeve. ‘Chief, I think I see them coming.’

Tynan peered through the windshield intently, narrowing his eyes, and finally he made out two specks of light approaching head on. ‘Must be Jenkins,’ he said. ‘He’s using only his parking lights.’

He fell silent, continuing to follow the progress of the other car as it drew closer.

‘All right,’ Tynan said suddenly, ‘here’s how we’ll do it. I’m getting into the back seat I’ll be in the back to meet him. You stay right where you are, behind the wheel. You can listen. Don’t speak. I’ll do all the talking. You just listen. We’re both in on this.’

Tynan opened the front door of the Pontiac, stepped out, closed it, opened the rear door, got inside, and slumped in the far corner of the back seat.

The other car had entered the clearing and drawn up ten yards behind them. The engine choked to a halt The parking lights went out. A door opened and closed.

There was the crunch of footsteps.

The wizened face of Warden Bruce Jenkins came down to appear in the window next to Adcock, who jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Jenkins bobbed his head and moved back, and now his face was at the rear side window, Tynan rolled the window halfway down.

‘Hi, Jenkins. How’ve you been?’

‘Good to see you, Director. Fine, fine. I got who you want with me.’

‘Any problem?’

‘Not really. He wasn’t too anxious to see you -‘

‘He doesn’t like me,’ said Tynan.

‘ - but he came. He’s curious.’

‘You bet,’ said Tynan. ‘We better not waste any time. It’s late enough. You better bring him here. Let him in through the other side, so he can sit next to me.’

‘Very well.’

‘After we’re through, and he gets out, and you secure him, you come back here. I may want to talk to you. I may want you to do a little more.’

‘Sure.’

‘One more thing, Jenkins. This meeting never took place.’

The warden’s face cracked into a smile. ‘What meeting?’ he said.

Tynan waited. In less than a minute, the opposite back door of the car opened.

Jenkins poked his head in. ‘He’s here.’

Donald Radenbaugh was standing stiffly just beyond the warden. Tynan couldn’t see his face, only that his wrists were together.

‘Is he handcuffed?’ Tynan asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take those damn cuffs off, will-you? This isn’t that kind of meeting.’

Tynan heard the jangle of keys, and saw the warden unlocking the handcuffs and removing them. He watched the prisoner massaging his freed wrists. He heard the warden say, ‘You can get into the back seat.’

Donald Radenbaugh stooped to enter the car. His head and face were visible now. He hadn’t changed much in his nearly three years of incarceration. Thinner, perhaps, slightly, in his oversized dull gray prison garb. He had a dry bald head, a blond fringe of hair and sideburns, eyes made smaller by the bags under them behind steel-rimmed glasses, a thin sallow face and thin pointed nose, with an untidy, diminutive blond moustache beneath it, and a weak chin. He was pale and sullen. Probably five feet ten, Tynan guessed, and maybe 170 pounds.

He had climbed into the car and sunk into the back seat, as far away from Tynan as possible.

Tynan made no effort to shake his hand. ‘Hello, Don,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s been a long time.’

‘I suppose it has.’

‘Would you like a cigarette? Harry, give him a cigarette, and your lighter.’

Radenbaugh held out his hand to accept the cigarette and the lighter. After he lit the cigarette, he returned the lighter. He drew heavily on the cigarette twice, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and seemed more relaxed.

‘Well, Don,’ Tynan resumed, ‘how’ve you been?’

Radenbaugh grunted. ‘That’s a helluva question.’

‘Is it that bad?’ asked Tynan solicitously. ‘I thought they had you in the prison library.’

‘I’m in jail,’ said Radenbaugh bitterly. ‘I’m in jail, cooped up like an animal, and I’m innocent.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Tynan. I guess it’s never good.’

‘It’s rotten,’ said Radenbaugh. ‘There’s everything to protect you from us - sliding steel doors, triple locks, sensors on the concrete wall. But there’s nothing to protect us on the inside - beatings, knifings, rapings, dope peddling. The cage and key men, the hacks - prisonese for guards -I guess I’m beginning to talk like the rest of them - each one trying to act tougher than the other. Lousy food, no exercise, and a cell six feet by eleven. How would you like to spend your best years on a planet six feet by eleven? The big event is getting a haircut. Or maybe a letter from your daughter. It stinks. Especially when you’re innocent. There’s just no hope.’

He lapsed into angry silence, inhaling and exhaling the cigarette smoke.

Tynan studied him in the gloom. ‘Yeah, the lack of hope -I guess that’s the worst of it,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Too bad about Noah Baxter. I guess he was your second-to-last chance to get out of here earlier. Too bad.’

Radenbaugh glanced up sharply. ‘My second-to-last chance?’ he repeated. ‘Yeah. I’m your last chance, Don.’ Radenbaugh’s gaze held on him. ‘You?’ ‘Me.’ Tynan nodded. ‘Yes, me. I came here to offer you a deal, Don. Strictly business, and between us. I can give you something you want. Freedom. You can give me something I want. Money. Are you ready to listen?’

Radenbaugh did not speak. But he was listening.

‘Okay,’ continued Tynan, ‘let me give it to you all at once, short and sweet. You’ve got a million dollars in cash stashed away somewhere in Florida. Let’s not argue if you’ve got it or not. I’ve read the record over carefully. A reliable witness swore you left Washington with the money. You were to deliver it in Miami. You never delivered it. You knew you were fingered, so you never delivered it. When you were picked up, you didn’t have it.’

“Maybe I never had the money,’ said Radenbaugh calmly. ‘Maybe I was telling the truth.’

‘Maybe,’ said Tynan agreeably. ‘Again, maybe not. Maybe you buried it. For a rainy day. Let’s just go on that assumption. That you buried it. If I’m right, then there’s a nice cool million in cash somewhere down there in Florida. It’s not earning you a dime interest. It should. It should be worth something to you - not in twelve years from now, but right this minute, today. What can money like that buy? Well, what do you want more than anything in the world? Freedom? You said it yourself, prison is rotten, stinking. You want out. I can’t make you innocent when the court said you were guilty. But I can make you a free man. Do you want to hear more?’

Radenbaugh reached toward the door, rolled down the window a few inches, and threw away the butt of his cigarette. Reclining again, he turned his head toward Tynan. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘That million dollars,’ said Tynan. ‘I need part of it. I’m no hog. I could ask for it all, and maybe get it. I’m not asking for it all. I want only part of it - let’s say for an investment. In return, I’ll cut your fifteen-year-sentence down to what you’ve served, as of tonight, or a few nights from tonight. It’s not easy, but I can arrange it. For your part, you’d then go down to Miami, dig up your money, deliver part of it to an intermediary. You’d deliver $750,000 to the intermediary, and you’d keep the remaining $250,000 to get a fresh start. And our deal would be satisfactorily concluded. How does that grab you?’

He eyed Radenbaugh, but Radenbaugh gave no response.

He sat staring straight ahead, lips compressed, face tight.

‘Okay, I guess you want to know a few details,’ Tynan went on. ‘There’s one catch. You’ll have to go along with it, or the whole deal’s off. I told you this wasn’t easy. It isn’t. I’m not empowered to parole you or free you. No one is, except members of the parole board - and I happen to know they won’t let you out - not until the next twelve years are served. I can’t get Donald Radenbaugh out of Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. But I can get you out.’

Radenbaugh looked at the Director now.

‘It’s tricky, but I can manage it,’ continued Tynan. ‘To protect both of us, you’d have to take on a new identity the day you were released. It’s not simple, but it can be done. It’s been done successfully before. Since 1970, at least 500 informers, Government witnesses, persons who turned state’s evidence have been given new identities by the Chief of Criminal Intelligence in the Department of Justice, and they’ve been secretly relocated. It’s worked every time, and it can work again. Only this time I couldn’t do it through the Department of Justice. I’d have to handle it myself.’

Tynan sought some reaction from Radenbaugh. There was none. Tynan continued.

‘First, we’d get rid of Donald Radenbaugh. That’s a must, to make it all come off. Warden Jenkins would put out a story that you were dead - that you had died of a heart attack or were stabbed to death. Probably that you died of natural causes. Less fuss. Next, we’d release you. We’d get rid of your fingerprints, alter your appearance, give you a completely new identity, new name, and papers with everything from a birth certificate to a Social Security card to an auto rental credit card and driver’s license to back up that new name. You’d be on your own from next week on -totally free, fully alive, and with a fat bankroll. But remember, there’d be no more Radenbaugh. I know you have a daughter, some other relatives, friends, but they’d be in mourning. They could never know the truth. I realize that might be rough on you, but it’s part of the price you pay for the deal - that and the $750,000.’

Tynan halted, and looked absently out the car window before finally shifting around to Radenbaugh.

‘There you have it,’ Tynan said. He tried to make out the hands on his wristwatch. ‘We’ve just about run out of time, Don. You’ve heard my first and last offer. You’ve got to decide Yes or No. If you choose to say No„ and prefer to rot in prison for another twelve years, and are lucky enough to avoid being stabbed to death, and at last get out when you’re an old man - well, you can keep all the money and keep your old name - that’s your choice. If you choose to say Yes, then there’s no more prison, you’re free, and you still keep a sizeable share of the money, and you’ve got a new life you can enjoy as another person. That’s also your choice.’

Tynan paused to let it sink in.

After a few moments, Tynan resumed with emphasis. ‘It has to be one or the other tonight. In the next five minutes, in fact. If it’s No, then you can open that door and get out, and Jenkins will be waiting with the handcuffs to take you back to your cell. If it’s Yes - just say the word - then I’ll instruct you and the warden, you’ll do as you are told, and in a week you’ll have a quarter of a million dollars and a free life. When you leave prison, you’ll only have to follow the simple instructions that’ll be in the pocket of your new suit along with an air ticket to Miami and a hotel reservation.’

Tynan paused.

‘Okay, Don,’ he said softly, ‘it’s up to you. What’s your decision?’

*

It was not until five days later that Chris Collins got to Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary.

After his flight back to Washington from Los Angeles, Collins had reported to President Wadsworth on his visit to California. The report had been brief, because Collins had omitted much of his actual activity. He had made up his mind, at least for now, not to reveal to the President the visit to Tule Lake; the conference with State Assemblymen Keefe, Yurkovich, and Tobias; the private meeting with Chief Justice Maynard. He could not speak of these matters

because he was, as yet, uncertain of the President’s own role in the suspicious happenings in California. Instead, he had discussed his television debate with Tony Pierce. Then he had spoken at length of his speech to the American Bar Association. He had tried to make it sound like a triumph, but the President had been well informed and had bluntly voiced his disappointment. ‘You underplayed and understated our case for the 35th Amendment,’ he had told Collins. ‘I really intended to have you come on stronger. Nevertheless, things are looking up. We had some good news today.’

The good news had proved to be Ronald Steedman’s latest poll of the California Legislature. In the State Assembly, among the members prepared to take a position, those favoring the Amendment led those opposing it 65 per cent to 35 per cent. In the State Senate the findings had been closer, with 55 per cent for and 45 per cent against. With difficulty, Collins had masked his dismay.

By then, Collins had been obsessed by his desire to visit Lewisburg, to get to his one remaining possible source on the secret of The R Document, and he had hoped to make the trip his second or third day back in Washington. But demands on his time by the President and by his own Criminal Division and Civil Rights Division had made an immediate trip impossible.

At last, through his subordinates in the Bureau of Prisons, he had arranged the trip.

Knowing that he could not explain or justify the real purpose of the visit, he had invented a phony one. He was working on recommendations for a revised Prisoner Rehabilitation Act, and to do so he must make a tour of Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary.

And so, in step with Warden Bruce Jenkins, he was making a hasty inspection of the prison. He had endured the clothing and sheet-metal factories; had visited the classrooms, the hospital, the library; had suffered closely supervised interviews with inmates in their cells.

Now the last of the inspection tour was over, and for Collins the most important part of it was to begin.

He had begged off having lunch, claiming an important appointment in New York.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Warden Jenkins inquired.