The county jails were the worst: tiny cramped cells with no heat, air-conditioning, sunlight, or suitable sanitation; food that dogs would ignore; little water; Bubbas for guards; a much higher threat of violence; local inmates who resented the intrusion of "federal prisoners." I could not believe conditions so deplorable existed in this country, but I was naive. As our journey continued and our moods soured, there was a marked increase in the level of bitching on the bus. This ceased when a veteran inmate explained the concept of "diesel therapy." Complain or make trouble, and the marshals will keep you on the bus for weeks and give you a free tour of dozens of county jails.
There was no hurry. The marshals can transport prisoners during daylight hours only; thus the distances tend to be short. They had absolutely no interest in our comfort or privacy.
We eventually made it to a distribution center in Atlanta, a notoriously bad place where I was kept in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day while my paperwork inched across someone's desk in Washington. After three weeks of this, I was losing my sanity. Nothing to read, no one to chat with, terrible food, bad guards. Eventually, we were re-shackled and loaded onto another bus and driven to the Atlanta airport where we boarded an unmarked cargo plane. Chained to a hard plastic bench and sitting knee to knee, we flew to Miami, though we had no idea where we were headed. One of the marshals kindly informed us. In Miami we picked up a few more, then flew to New Orleans, where we sat in suffocating humidity for an hour as the marshals loaded on even more.
On the plane, we were allowed to talk, and the chatter was refreshing. Most of us had just endured days of solitary, so we plunged into conversation. This was not the first trip for some of the boys, and they told other stories of being transported in chains, courtesy of the federal government. I began to hear descriptions of prison life.
At dark, we arrived in Oklahoma City, where we were shuffled onto a bus and taken to another distribution center. The place was not quite as bad as Atlanta, but by then I was thinking about suicide. After five days in solitary confinement, we were re-shackled and taken back to the airport. We flew into Texas, world capital of lethal injection, and I daydreamed of seeing the needle stuck into my arm and floating away. Eight tough guys, all Hispanic, boarded "Con Air" in Dallas, and we flew to Little Rock, then Memphis, then Cincinnati, where my flying days ended. I spent six nights in a tough city jail before a pair of marshals drove me to the prison in Louisville, Kentucky.
Louisville is five hundred miles from my hometown of Winchester, Virginia. Had I been allowed to self-surrender, my father and I would have made the drive in about eight hours. He would have dropped me off at the front gate and said good-bye.
Forty-four days, twenty-six of them in solitary, too many stops to remember. There is no logic in this system and no one cares. No one is watching.
The real tragedy of the federal criminal system is not the absurdities. It is the ruined and wasted lives. Congress demands long, harsh sentences, and for the violent thugs these are appropriate. Hardened criminals are locked away in "U.S. Pens," fortresses where gangs are rampant and murders are routine. But the majority of federal prisoners are nonviolent, and many are convicted of crimes that involved little, if any, criminal activity.
For the rest of my life I will be regarded as a criminal, and I refuse to accept this. I will have a life, freed from my past and far away from the tentacles of the federal government.
Chapter 11
Rule 35 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure provides the only mechanism for the commutation of a prison sentence. Its logic is brilliant and fits my situation perfectly. If an inmate can solve another crime, one that the Feds have an interest in, then the inmate's sentence can be reduced. Of course, this takes the cooperation of the investigating authorities - FBI, DEA, CIA, ATF, and so on - and of the court from which the inmate was sentenced.
If all goes as planned, I may soon have the privilege of seeing the Honorable Judge Slater, and it will be on my terms.
The Feds are back.
The warden is much nicer to me these days. He figures he has a prize that some big people desire, and he needs to be in the thick of things. I take a seat at his desk and he asks if I want coffee. This offer is almost too surreal to comprehend - the almighty warden offering coffee to an inmate.
"Sure," I say. "Black."
He punches a button and relays our wishes to a secretary. I notice he's wearing cuff links today, a good sign.
"Got the big boys here today, Mal," he informs me smugly, as if he's coordinating all efforts to find the murderer. Since we are such good pals now, he's using my first name. Until now it's been Bannister this and Bannister that.
"Who?" I ask.
"The director of the task force, Victor Westlake, from Washington, and a bunch of lawyers. I'd say you have their attention."
I cannot keep from smiling, but only for a second.
"This guy who killed Judge Fawcett, was he ever here, at Frostburg?" the warden asks.
"Sorry, Warden, I can't answer that."
"Either here or Louisville, I take it."
"Maybe, or maybe I knew him before prison."
He frowns and rubs his chin. "I see," he mumbles.
The coffee arrives, on a tray, and for the first time in years I drink from a cup not made of plastic or paper. We kill a few minutes talking about nothing. At 11:05, his secretary informs him through the intercom on his desk, "They are in place." I follow him through the door and into the same conference room.
Five men in the same dark suits, same white shirts with button-down collars, same bland ties. If I had seen them in a crowd from half a mile away, I could have said, "Yep, Feds."
We go through the usual stiff introductions and the warden reluctantly excuses himself. I sit on one side of the table and my five new buddies sit on the other. Victor Westlake is in the middle, and to his right are Agent Hanski and a new face, Agent Sasswater. Neither of these two will say a word. To the left of Westlake are the two assistant U.S. Attorneys - Mangrum from the Southern District of Virginia and Craddock from the Northern. The rookie Dunleavy got left behind.
Thunderstorms had rolled through just after midnight, and Westlake begins by saying, "Quite a storm last night, huh?"
I narrow my eyes and stare at him. "Seriously? You want to talk about the weather?"
This really pisses him off, but he's a pro. A smile, a grunt, then, "No, Mr. Bannister, I'm not here to talk about the weather. My boss thinks we should make a deal with you, so that's why I'm here."
"Great. And, yes, it was quite a storm."
"We'd like to hear your terms."
"I think you know them. We use Rule 35. We sign an agreement, all of us, in which I give you the name of the man who killed Judge Fawcett. You pick him up, investigate him, do your thing, and when a federal grand jury indicts him, I walk. That very day. I transfer out of Frostburg and disappear into witness protection. No more time; no more criminal record; no more Malcolm Bannister. The deal is confidential, locked away, buried, and signed by the Attorney General."
"The AG?"
"Yes sir. I don't trust you or anyone in this room. I don't trust Judge Slater or any other federal judge, prosecutor, assistant prosecutor, FBI agent, or anybody else working for the federal government. The paperwork must be perfect; the deal unbreakable. When the killer is indicted, I walk. Period."
"Will you use an attorney?"