"No sir. I can handle that."
"Fair enough."
Mangrum suddenly produces a file and removes several copies of a document. He slides one across the table, and it comes to a rest in front of me, in perfect position. I glance at it and my heart begins to pound. The heading is the same as all of the motions and orders filed in my case: "In the United States District Court of Washington, D.C.; United States of America versus Malcolm W. Bannister." In the center of the page, in all caps, are the words "RULE 35 MOTION."
"This is a proposed court order," Mangrum says. "It's just a starting point, but we've spent some time on it."
Two days later, I am placed in the rear seat of a Ford SUV and driven away from Frostburg, my first exit from the camp since the day I arrived three years earlier. No leg chains today, but my wrists are cuffed in front of me. My two buddies are U.S. Marshals, names withheld, but they are nice enough. After we get through the weather, one of them asks if I've heard any good jokes. Lock away six hundred men and give them plenty of idle time, and the jokes come in waves.
"Clean or dirty?" I ask, though there are few clean jokes in prison.
"Oh, dirty of course," the driver says.
I tell a couple and get some good laughs as the miles fly by. We're on Interstate 68, zipping through Hagerstown, and the feeling of freedom is exhilarating. In spite of the handcuffs, I can almost taste the life out there. I watch the traffic and dream of owning and driving a car again, of going anywhere. I see fast-food restaurants at the interchanges and I salivate at the thought of a burger and fries. I see a couple walking hand in hand into a store, and I can almost feel the touch of her flesh. A beer sign in the window of a bar makes me thirsty. A billboard advertising Caribbean cruises takes me to another world. I feel as if I've been locked up for a century.
We turn south on Interstate 70 and are soon in the Washington-Baltimore sprawl. Three hours after we leave Frostburg, we arrive in the basement of the federal courthouse in downtown D.C. Inside the building, the handcuffs are removed; I proceed with one marshal in front of me, the other behind.
The meeting takes place in the chambers of Judge Slater, who's as prickly as ever and seems to have aged twenty years in the past five. He considers me a 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?"