The Racketeer (28 page)

When it’s perfect, I cross the Potomac and drive through central D.C., looking for a post office drop box.

CHAPTER 28

Q
uinn Rucker turned his back to the bars, stuck his hands through, and touched his wrists behind him. The deputy slapped on the handcuffs as another one opened the cell door. They escorted Quinn to a cramped holding area where three FBI agents were waiting. From there, they walked him through a side door and into a black SUV with dark windows and more armed guards. Ten minutes later, he arrived with full escort at the rear door of the federal building, where he was whisked inside and up two flights of stairs.

Neither Victor Westlake, nor Stanley Mumphrey, nor any other lawyer in the room had ever taken part in such a meeting. The defendant was never brought in for a chat. If the police needed to talk to the accused, they did so at the jail. If his appearance was needed in court, the judge or magistrate called a hearing.

Quinn was led into the small conference room, and the handcuffs were removed. He shook hands with his lawyer, Dusty Shiver, who, of course, had to be present but was uncertain about the meeting. He had cautioned the Feds that his client would say nothing until he, Dusty, allowed him to speak.

Quinn had been in jail for four months and was not doing well. For reasons known only to his keepers, he was locked down in solitary confinement. Contact with his guards was minimal.
The food was dreadful and he was losing weight. He was also taking antidepressants and sleeping fifteen hours a day. Often, he refused to meet with anyone from his family, or with Dusty. One week he demanded the right to plead guilty in exchange for life in prison; the next week he wanted a trial. He had fired Dusty twice, only to rehire him days later. He occasionally admitted killing Judge Fawcett and his girlfriend but always recanted and accused the government of doping his food. He had threatened the guards with promises of death and the deaths of their children, only to offer tearful apologies when his mood changed.

Victor Westlake was in charge of the meeting and began by saying, “Let’s get to the point, Mr. Rucker. We have it on good intelligence that you and some of your fellow conspirators desire to knock off one of our witnesses.”

Dusty touched Quinn’s arm and said, “Not a word. Do not speak until I say so.” Quinn smiled at Westlake as if killing a government witness would be a delight.

Westlake kept going: “The purpose of this little get-together is to warn you, Mr. Rucker, that if any of our witnesses are harmed, then you will face additional charges, and not just you. We’ll go after every member of your family.”

Quinn was grinning, and he blurted, “So, Bannister is on the run, huh?”

“Shut up, Quinn,” Dusty said.

“I don’t have to shut up,” Quinn said. “I hear Bannister has left the warm sun of Florida.”

“Shut up, Quinn!” Dusty snarled again.

“Got him a new face, probably a new name, the works,” Quinn continued.

Stanley Mumphrey said, “We’ll indict Dee Ray, Tall Man, several of your cousins, anybody and everybody we can throw the book at, Quinn, if you harm any of our witnesses.”

“You don’t have any witnesses,” Quinn shot across the table. “Only Bannister.”

Dusty threw his hands up and slumped in his chair. “I advise you to shut up, Quinn.”

“I hear you,” Quinn said. “I hear you.”

Westlake managed to maintain a scowl as he stared at the defendant, but he was stunned. The meeting was supposed to intimidate Quinn, not frighten the government. How on earth were they able to find Bannister in Florida and now know he had fled? It was a chilling moment for Westlake and his assistants. If they could find their informant, they would certainly bring him in.

“Your entire family could face capital murder charges,” Stanley plowed on in a feeble attempt to sound tough.

Quinn just smiled. He stopped talking and folded his arms across his chest.

I have to see Vanessa Young. A meeting has an element of risk; to be seen together by the wrong people would create questions I’m not ready to answer. But a meeting is inevitable and has been for several years.

I saw her at Frostburg, on a snowy day when many visitors didn’t make the drive. While I was talking to my father, Henry, she walked in and sat at the next table. She was there to visit her brother. She was gorgeous, early forties, soft brown skin, beautiful sad eyes, long legs, and tight jeans. The whole package. I could not keep my eyes off her, and Henry finally said, “You want me to leave?” Of course not, because if he left, then my visiting time was over. The longer he stayed, the longer I could look at Vanessa. Before long, she was looking back, and we were soon making serious eye contact. The attraction was mutual, at first.

But there were a couple of sticking points. First, my incarceration and, second, her marriage, which, as it turned out, was a mess. I leaned on her brother for information, but he wanted
to stay out of it. We swapped a few letters, but she was afraid of getting caught by her husband. She tried to visit more often, to see both her brother and me, but she had two teenagers who were complicating her life. After her divorce was final, she dated other men, but nothing worked. I begged Vanessa to wait for me, but seven years is a long time when you’re forty-one. When her kids left home, she moved to Richmond, Virginia, and our long-distance romance cooled off. Vanessa’s background is such that she is extremely cautious and keeps one eye on the rearview mirror. I guess we have that much in common. Using encrypted e-mails, we manage to arrange a time and place. I warn her that I look nothing like the Malcolm Bannister she met in prison. She says she’ll take that chance. She can’t wait to see the new-and-improved version.

As I park outside the restaurant, in a suburb of Richmond, I have a bad case of the butterflies. I’m a wreck because I am about to finally touch the woman I have dreamed about for almost three years. I know she wants to touch me too, but the guy she was so physically attracted to back then looks entirely different now. What if she doesn’t approve? What if she prefers Malcolm to Max? It’s also unnerving to realize I’m about to spend time with the only person, outside the Feds, who knows both men.

I wipe perspiration from my forehead and consider leaving. Then I get out and slam the door.

She’s at the table, and as I almost stutter-step over, she smiles. She approves. I kiss her gently on the cheek and sit down, and for a long time we just look at each other. Finally, I say, “Well, what do you think?”

Vanessa shakes her head and says, “Pretty astonishing. I would have never known. Got any ID?” We both laugh and I say, “Sure, but it’s all bogus. It says I’m Max now, not Malcolm.”

“You look thin, Max.”

“Thanks, and you too.” I caught a glimpse of her legs under the table. Short skirt. Funky high heels. She’s dressed for action.

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“Well, I suppose I don’t have a choice now, do I? I think you’re cute, Max. I like the new you, the whole ensemble. Whose idea was the designer eyeglasses?”

“My consultant, same guy who suggested the slick head and four days of stubble.”

“The more I see, the more I like.”

“Thank God. I’m a nervous wreck.”

“Relax, baby. We’re in for a long night.”

The waiter takes our drink orders—a martini for me, diet soda for her. There are a lot of things I don’t want to discuss, namely my sudden exit from prison and witness protection. The brother she visited in prison got out but is already back behind bars, so we leave him out of the conversation. I ask about her kids, a daughter who’s twenty and in college and a son who’s eighteen and drifting.

At one point, as I’m talking, she stops me and says, “You even sound different.”

“Good. It’s a new speech pattern I’ve been practicing for months now. A much slower delivery and a deeper voice. Does it seem genuine?”

“I think so. Yes, it’s working.”

She asks where I’m living, and I explain I’ve yet to find a home. I’m moving around, trying to avoid getting trailed by the FBI and others, lots of cheap motels. I’m not a fugitive, but I’m not exactly in the clear. Our dinner arrives, but we hardly notice.

She says, “You look a lot younger. Maybe I should see your plastic surgeon.”

“Please, don’t change a thing.” I talk about the changes—primarily the eyes, nose, and chin. I amuse her by describing the meetings with my surgical team and our efforts to design a new face. I’m also twenty pounds lighter and she thinks I need to put on a few pounds. As our nerves settle we relax and talk like a couple of old friends. The waiter asks if our food is okay, since
we’ve hardly touched it. We hit a number of topics, but in the back of our minds we’re both thinking the same thing. I finally say, “Let’s get outta here.”

The words are barely spoken and she’s reaching for her purse. I pay cash for the meal and we’re in the parking lot. I don’t like the idea of her apartment and she agrees. It’s rather small and bare, she explains. We check into a hotel I spotted down the street and order a bottle of champagne. Two kids on their wedding night could not possibly exert more energy than Vanessa and I. There was so much ground to cover, so much catching up to do.

CHAPTER 29

W
hile Vanessa is at work, I run a few errands around Richmond. At one store, I spend $70 on a cheap prepaid cell phone with one hundred minutes of call time, and at another I buy the identical phone and plan for $68. I’ll give one phone to Vanessa and keep the other. At a pharmacy, I load up on prepaid credit cards. I have an appointment with a man who owns a camera shop and calls himself a videographer, but his fee is too high. If I’m lucky and get an interview, I’ll need two people—a cameraman and a gofer. This guy says he works with a full crew or doesn’t work at all.

Vanessa and I have a sandwich for lunch in a deli not far from her office. For dinner, we go to a bistro in the Carytown section of Richmond. Our after-dinner routine is remarkably, and wonderfully, similar to the night before, and in the same hotel room. This could be habit forming. Our plans for the third night, though, are derailed when her son calls. He’s passing through town and needs a place to stay. She figures he’ll need some money too.

We’re finishing dinner when the cell phone in my pocket vibrates. The caller ID says “Unknown,” but then all calls to this phone are unknown. Expecting big news, I say to Vanessa, “Excuse me,” and step away from the table. In the foyer of the restaurant, I answer the phone.

A vaguely familiar voice says, “Mr. Reed Baldwin, this is Nathan Cooley. I got your letter.”

I tell myself to speak slowly and deeply. “Yes, Mr. Cooley, thanks for the call.” Of course he got my letter—how else would he have my phone number?

“When do you want to talk?” he asks.

“Anytime. I’m in Washington right now and we finished filming today. I have some downtime, so right now is perfect. What about you?”

“I’m not going anywhere. How did you find me?”

“The Internet. It’s hard to hide these days.”

“I guess so. I usually sleep late, then work at the bar from about two until midnight.”

“How about lunch tomorrow?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Just the two of us, no cameras or recorders or stuff like that. I’m buying.”

A pause, and I hold my breath. “Okay, I guess. Where?”

“It’s your neck of the woods, Mr. Cooley. You pick the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, at the Radford exit off Interstate 81 there is a place called Spanky’s. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

“How will I recognize you?” he asks, and I almost drop my phone. Recognition is a far greater issue than he’ll ever realize. I have subjected myself to surgery that radically altered my face. I shave my head every other day and my beard once a week. I have starved off twenty pounds. I wear fake tortoiseshell glasses with round red frames, along with black T-shirts, fake Armani sport coats, and canvas sandals one would find only in Miami or L.A. I have a different name. I have a different voice and delivery.

And this entire charade has been carefully put together not to mislead the people who want to follow me or kill me but to conceal my real identity from you, Mr. Nathan Cooley.

I say, “I’m six feet tall, black, thin, a slick head, and I’ll be wearing a white straw hat, Panama style.”

“You’re black?” he blurts.

“Yep. Is that a problem?”

“No. See you tomorrow.”

I return to the table where Vanessa is waiting anxiously. I say softly, “It’s Cooley. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

She smiles and says, “Go for it.” We finish dinner and reluctantly say good-bye. We kiss outside the restaurant and act like a couple of teenagers. I think about her all the way to Roanoke.