"Sorry, but that's none of your business."
At this point, Westlake nods at an agent by the door, and he disappears. The search is on.
"Let's talk about Judge Fawcett," Westlake says.
"Okay," I reply. I cannot count the number of times I have lived for this moment. I have rehearsed this in the darkness of my cell when I couldn't sleep. I have written it in narrative form, then destroyed it. I have said the words out loud while taking long, lonely walks around the edges of Frostburg. It's hard to believe this is finally happening.
"A big part of his gang's business was running cocaine from Miami to the major cities along the East Coast, primarily the southern leg - Atlanta, Charleston, Raleigh, Charlotte, Richmond, and so on. Interstate 95 was the favored route because it is so heavily traveled, but the gang used every state highway and county road on the map. Most of it was mule running. They would pay a driver $5,000 to rent a car and haul a trunkload of coke to a distribution center in - pick a city. The mule would make the drop, then turn around and drive back to south Florida. According to Quinn, 90 percent of the coke snorted in Manhattan gets there in a car rented by a mule in Miami and driven north as if on legitimate business. Detection is virtually impossible. When mules are caught, it's because someone snitched. Anyway, Quinn had a nephew who was working his way up the ladder of the family business. The kid was mule running, and he got caught speeding on Interstate 81 just outside of Roanoke. He was in a rented Avis van and said he was delivering antique furniture to a store in Georgetown. There was indeed furniture in the van, but the real cargo was cocaine with a street value of $5 million. The state trooper was suspicious and called for a backup. The nephew knew the rules and refused to allow a search of the van. The second trooper was a rookie, a real eager beaver, and he began poking around the cargo bay of the van. He had no warrant, no probable cause, and no permission to search. When he found the cocaine, he went ballistic and everything changed."
I pause and take a sip of water. The agent with the laptop is pecking away, no doubt sending directives all over the East Coast.
"What is the nephew's name?" Westlake asks.
"I don't know, but I don't think his last name was Rucker. Within his family, there are several last names and a fair number of aliases."
"And so the nephew's case was assigned to Judge Fawcett?" Westlake asks, prompting me along, though no one seems to be in a hurry. They're hanging on every word and anxious to find Quinn Rucker, but they want the whole story.
"Yes, and Quinn hired a big lawyer in Roanoke, one who assured him the search was blatantly unconstitutional. If the search was thrown out by Fawcett, then so was the evidence. No evidence, no trial, no conviction, nothing. Somewhere in the process, Quinn learned that Judge Fawcett might look more favorably upon the nephew's case if some cash could change hands. Serious cash. According to Quinn, the deal was brokered by their lawyer. And, no, I do not know the name of the lawyer."
"How much cash?" Westlake asks.
"Half a million." This is met with great skepticism, and I am not surprised. "I found it hard to believe too. A federal judge taking a bribe. But then I was also shocked when an FBI agent was caught spying for the Russians. I guess under the right circumstances, a man will do just about anything."
"Let's stay on subject here," Westlake says, irritated.
"Sure. Quinn and the family paid the bribe. Fawcett took the bribe. The case crept along until one day when there was a hearing on the nephew's motion to exclude the evidence that was seized during a bad search. Much to everyone's surprise, the judge ruled against the nephew, in favor of the government, and ordered a trial. With no defense, the jury found the kid guilty, but the lawyer felt good about their chances on appeal. The case is still rattling on appeal. In the meantime, the nephew is serving an eighteen-year sentence in Alabama."
"This is a nice story, Mr. Bannister," Westlake says, "but how do you know Quinn Rucker killed the judge?"
"Because he told me he was going to do it, out of revenge and to retrieve his money. He talked about it often. He knew exactly where the judge lived, worked, and liked to spend his weekends. He suspected the money was hidden somewhere in the cabin, and he firmly believed he wasn't the only one who'd been ripped off by Fawcett. And, because he told me, Mr. Westlake, he will target me as soon as he's arrested. I might walk out of prison, but I'll always look over my shoulder. These people are very smart - look at your own investigation. Nothing. Not a clue. They hold grudges, and they are very patient. Quinn waited almost three years to kill the judge. He'll wait twenty years to get me."
"If he's so smart, why would he tell you all of this?" Westlake asks.
"Simple. Like a lot of inmates, Quinn thought I could file some brilliant motion, find a loophole, and get him out of prison. He said he would pay me; said I would get half of whatever he took off Judge Fawcett. I've heard this before, and since. I looked at Quinn's file and told him there was nothing I could do."
They have to believe I'm telling the truth. If Quinn Rucker is not indicted, then I'll spend the next five years in prison. We're still on opposite sides, me and them, but we're slowly reaching common ground.
Chapter 13
Six hours later, two black FBI agents paid the cover charge at the Velvet Club, three blocks away from the Norfolk Naval Base. They were dressed like construction workers and mixed easily with the crowd, which was half white, half black, half sailors, and half civilians. The dancers were also half-and-half, affirmative action all around. Two surveillance vans waited in the parking lot, along with a dozen more agents. Quinn Rucker had been spotted, photographed, and identified entering the club at 5:30. He worked as a bartender, and when he left his post at 8:45 to go to the restroom, he was followed. Inside the restroom, the two agents confronted him. After a brief discussion, they agreed to leave through a rear door. Quinn understood the situation and made no sudden moves. Nor did he seem surprised. As with many escapees, the end of the run was in many ways a relief. The dreams of freedom crumble under the challenges of living normally. Someone is always back there.
He was handcuffed and taken to the FBI office in Norfolk. In an interrogation room, the two black agents served him coffee and began a friendly chat. The crime was nothing more than an escape, and he had no defense. He was dead guilty and headed back to prison.
They asked Quinn if he was willing to answer a few basic questions about his escape some three months earlier. He said sure, why not? He volunteered that he had met an unnamed accomplice not far from the camp at Frostburg and had been driven back to D.C. He hung around there for a few days, but his presence was not well received. Escapees draw attention, and his boys did not appreciate the possibility of the FBI poking around and looking for him. He began muling cocaine from Miami to Atlanta, but the work was slow. He was damaged goods and his "syndicate," as he called it, was wary of him. He saw his wife and kids occasionally, but knew the danger of getting too close to home. He spent time with an old girlfriend in Baltimore, but she, too, was less than excited about his presence. He drifted around, picking up an occasional drug run, then got lucky when his cousin gave him a job tending bar at the Velvet Club.
Next door, in a larger interrogation room, two of the FBI's veteran interrogators were listening to the conversation. Another team was upstairs, waiting and listening. If things went well, it would be a long night for Quinn. Things had to go well for the FBI. With no physical evidence so far, it was imperative that the interrogation produce some proof. The FBI was worried, though, because they were dealing with a man who'd been around the block a few times. It was unlikely their suspect could be intimidated into saying much.