But cover them we must. He changes subjects and says, "Looks like that little white girl is thinking about an abortion. Maybe I won't be a great-grandfather after all."
"Delmon will do it again," I say. We always expect the worst out of the kid.
"We need to get him sterilized. He's too stupid to use condoms."
"Buy him some anyway. You know Marcus is too broke."
"I only see the kid when he wants something. Hell, I'll probably get hit up for the abortion. I think the girl's trash."
While on the topic of money, I can't help but think about the reward in the Fawcett case. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash. I've never seen so much money. Before Bo was born, Dionne and I realized one day we had saved $6,000. We put half in a mutual fund and took a cruise with the remainder. Our frugal habits were soon forgotten, and we never again had that kind of cash. Just before I was indicted, we refinanced our house to squeeze out every last drop of equity. The money went for legal fees.
I'll be rich and on the run. I remind myself not to get excited, but it's impossible.
Henry needs a new left knee, and we talk about this for some time. He's always poked fun at old folks who dwell on their ailments, but he's getting just as bad. After an hour, he's bored and ready to go. I walk with him to the door, and we shake hands stiffly. As he leaves, I wonder if I will ever see him again.
Sunday. No word from the FBI, or anyone else. I read four newspapers after breakfast and learn almost nothing new about Quinn Rucker and his arrest. However, there is one significant development. According to the Post, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Virginia will present the case to the grand jury tomorrow. Monday. If the grand jury issues an indictment, then, in theory and by agreement, I am supposed to become a free man.
There is a surprising amount of organized religion in prison. As troubled men, we seek solace, peace, comfort, and guidance. We've been humiliated, humbled, stripped bare of dignity, family, and assets, and we have nothing left. Cast into hell, we look upward for a way out. There are a few Muslims who pray five times a day and stick to themselves. There is a self-appointed Buddhist monk with a few followers. No Jews or Mormons that I know of. Then there are us Christians, and this is where it gets complicated. A Catholic priest comes in twice a month for Mass at eight on Sunday mornings. As soon as the Catholics clear out of the small chapel, a nondenominational service is held for those from mainline churches - Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and so on. This is where I fit in on most Sundays. At 10:00 a.m., the white Pentecostals gather for a rowdy service with loud music and even louder preaching, along with healing and speaking in tongues. This service is supposed to end at 11:00 a.m. but often runs longer as the spirit moves among the worshippers. The black Pentecostals get the chapel at 11:00 a.m. but sometimes must wait while the white ones simmer down. I've heard stories of harsh words between the two groups, but so far no fights have erupted in the chapel. Once they get the pulpit, the black Pentecostals keep it throughout the afternoon.
It would be wrong to get the impression that Frostburg is filled with Bible-thumpers. It is not. It's still a prison, and the majority of my fellow inmates would not be caught dead in a church service.
As I leave the chapel after the nondenominational service, a CO finds me and says, "They're looking for you in the admin building."
Chapter 17
Agent Hanski is waiting with a new player in my game - Pat Surhoff, U.S. Marshal. We make our introductions and gather around a small table not far down the hall from the warden's office. He, of course, would never be seen on the premises on a Sunday, and who could blame him?
Hanski whips out a document and slides it across. "Here's the indictment," he says. "Came down late Friday afternoon in Roanoke, still a secret, but it will be released to the press first thing in the morning." I hold it like a brick of gold and have trouble focusing on the words. United States of America versus Quinn Al Rucker. It's been stamped in the top right corner, with last Friday's date in blue ink.
"The Post said the grand jury meets in the morning," I manage to say, though it's obvious what's already happened.
"We're playing the press," Hanski says smugly. Smug, but a much nicer guy this time around. Our roles have changed dramatically. Once I had been a shifty-eyed con looking for a deal and probably scamming the system. Now, though, I'm the golden boy about to walk out of here and take some cash with me.
I shake my head and say, "I'm at a loss for words, guys. Help me here."
Hanski is ready to pounce. "Here's what we have in mind, Mr. Bannister."
"How about Mal now?" I ask.
"Great. I'm Chris and he's Pat."
"Got it."
"The Bureau of Prisons has just reassigned you to the medium-security joint at Fort Wayne, Indiana. Reason unknown, or not given. Some type of rule violation that pissed off the big guys. No visitors for six months. Solitary confinement. Anyone who's curious can find you online with the Inmate Locator service, but they'll soon hit a brick wall. After a couple of months in Fort Wayne, you'll be reassigned again. The goal is to keep you moving throughout the system and buried in it."
"I'm sure this will be quite easy for the bureau," I say, and they both laugh. Man, have I changed teams or what?
"In a few minutes, we'll do the handcuff and ankle-chain routine, for the last time, and walk you out of here, just like a normal transfer. You'll get in an unmarked van with Pat and another marshal, and they'll drive you west, headed for Fort Wayne. I'll follow. Sixty miles down the road, just this side of Morgantown, we'll stop at a motel where we have some rooms. You'll change clothes, have some lunch, and we'll talk about the future."
"In a few minutes?" I say, shocked.
"That's the plan. Is there anything in your cell that you cannot live without?"
"Yes. I have some personal stuff, paperwork and such."
"Okay. We'll get the prison to box up everything tomorrow and we'll get it to you. It's best if you don't go back there. If someone saw you gathering your things, they might ask questions. We don't want anyone here to know you're leaving until you're gone."
"Got it."
"No farewells and all that crap, okay?"
"Okay." For a second I think about my friends here at Frostburg, but quickly let it go. This day is coming for all of them too, and once you're free, you don't look back. I doubt seriously if friendships made in prison endure on the outside. And in my case, I will never be able to catch up with the old pals and reminisce. I am about to become another person.
"You have $78 in your prison account. We'll forward that to Fort Wayne, and it'll get lost in the system."
"Screwed once more by the federal government," I say, and again they think I'm funny.
"Any questions?" Hanski asks.
"Sure. How did you get him to confess? He's too smart for that."
"We were surprised, frankly. We used a couple of our veteran interrogators, and they have their methods. He mentioned a lawyer a couple of times but backed off. He wanted to talk, and he seemed overwhelmed by the fact that he'd been caught, not for the escape, but for the murder. He wanted to know how much we knew, so we kept talking. For ten hours. Through the night into the early morning. He didn't want to leave and go to jail, so he stayed in the room. Once he became convinced that we knew what we knew, he broke down. When we mentioned the possibility of his family being indicted, along with most of his gang, he wanted to cut a deal. He eventually gave us everything."