John Grisham - The Racketeer

“That’s right. He walked away, or escaped, and made his way to Roanoke.”

“And why, might I ask, did he go to Roanoke?”

“Again, Mr. Shiver, I can’t answer a lot of questions.”

“So he shows up in Roanoke the day after the bodies are found, goes to a bar, gets drunk, gets in a fight, gets arrested, and he’s got a pocketful of cash. There are a lot of gaps here, Miss …”

“Yes, there are, and with time the gaps will be filled in. Right now, though, it’s not that important, is it? What’s important is that you have clear proof of his innocence. Other than the bogus confession, the government has no evidence against my brother, right?”

“That’s correct. There’s no physical evidence, just a lot of suspicious behavior. Such as, why was he in Roanoke? How did he get there? Where did he get all that cash? Where did he buy the stolen guns? Lots of questions, Miss, but I suppose you don’t have the answers, right?”

“Correct.”

Dusty locks his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. After a long, silent gap he says, “I’ll have to investigate this, you know. I’ll have to go to the rehab center, interview the people there, take affidavits and such. The Feds are not about to roll over until our file is much thicker and we can hit them over the head with it. I’ll need another $25,000.”

Without hesitation, she says, “I’ll discuss it with Dee Ray.”

“The pretrial conference is in two weeks, so we need to move fast. I’d like to file a motion to dismiss the charges before the conference.”

“You’re the lawyer.”

Another pause as Dusty leans forward on his elbows and looks at Vanessa. “I knew Judge Fawcett well. We weren’t friends, but friendly acquaintances. If Quinn didn’t kill him, any idea who did?”

She is already shaking her head. No.

The police found Nathan’s truck at the general aviation area of the Roanoke Regional Airport late Tuesday morning. As expected, his employees at the bar became concerned Monday when he didn’t show, and by late afternoon they were making calls. They finally contacted the police, who eventually scoured the airport. Nathan had boasted of flying to Miami on a private jet, so the search was not difficult, at least for his truck. Finding it did not automatically indicate foul play, and the police were in no hurry to start a manhunt. A quick background check on the name revealed the criminal record, and this did nothing to create sympathy. There was no family screaming for the lost loved one.

A computer search and a few phone calls revealed that Nathan had purchased the brand-new Chevy Silverado two months earlier from a dealer in Lexington, Virginia, an hour north of Roanoke on Interstate 81. The selling price was $41,000, and Nathan had paid in cash. Not the kind of cash often referred to when one writes a check, but hard cash. An impressive stack of $100 bills.

Unknown to the car dealer, or the police, or anyone else for that matter, Nathan had found himself a gold trader.

I finally find one myself.

After two trips into the vault of the Palmetto Trust in south-central Miami, I still have in my possession, in the trunk of my rented Impala, exactly forty-one of the precious little mini-bars, value of about $600,000. I need to convert some of them to cash, and to do so I am forced to enter the shady world of gold trading, where rules are pliant and adjusted on the fly and all characters have shifty eyes and speak in double-talk.

The first two dealers, lifted from the Yellow Pages, suspect I’m an agent of some variety and promptly hang up. The third one, a gentleman with an accent, which I’m quickly learning is not unusual in the trade, wants to know how I came to possess a ten-ounce bar of seemingly pure gold. “It’s a long story,” I say, then hang up. Number four is a small fry who pawns appliances out front and buys jewelry in the back. Number five shows some potential but, of course, will have to see what I’ve got. I explain that I do not want to walk into his store because I do not wish to be caught on video. He pauses and I suspect he’s thinking about getting robbed of his cash at gunpoint. We eventually agree to meet at an ice cream shop two doors down from his store, in a shopping center, in a good part of town. He’ll be wearing a black Marlins cap.

Thirty minutes later I’m sitting in front of a double pistachio gelato. Hassan, a large gray-bearded Syrian, is across from me and working on a triple chocolate fudge. Twenty feet away is another swarthy gentleman who’s reading a newspaper, eating frozen yogurt, and probably ready to shoot me if I show the slightest sign of causing trouble.

After we try and fail at small talk, I slide over a crumpled envelope. Inside is a single gold bar. Hassan glances around, but the only customers are young moms and their five-year-olds, along with the other Syrian. He takes the mini-bar into his thick paw, squeezes it, smiles, taps it slightly on the corner of the table, and mumbles, “Wow.” This he manages without the slightest hint of an accent.

I am amazed at how soothing that simple expression is. I have never thought about the gold being fake, but to have it legitimized by a pro is suddenly refreshing. “You like, huh?” I say stupidly, just trying to get something out.

“Very nice,” he says, easing the bar into the envelope. I reach over and take it. He asks, “How many?”

“Let’s say five bars, fifty ounces. Gold closed yesterday at $1,520 an ounce, so-”

“I know the price of gold,” he interrupts.

“Of course you do. Do you want to buy five bars?”

A guy like this never says yes or no. Instead, he mumbles, talks in circles, hedges, and bluffs. He says, “It is possible, and it certainly depends on the price.”

“What can you offer?” I ask, but not too eagerly. There are other gold dealers left in the Yellow Pages, though I’m running out of time and weary of the cold-calling.

“Well, that depends, Mr. Baldwin, on several things. One must assume in a situation like this that the gold is of, shall we say, the black-market variety. I don’t know where you got it, and don’t want to know, but there is a reasonable chance it was, shall we say, extracted from its previous owner.”

“Does it really matter where-”

“Are you the registered owner of this gold, Mr. Baldwin?” he asks sharply.

I glance around. “No.”

“Of course not. Therefore, the black-market discount is 20 percent.” This guy doesn’t need a calculator. “I’ll pay $1,220 an ounce,” he says softly but firmly as he leans forward. His beard partially covers his lips, but his accented words are clear.

“For five bars?” I ask. “Fifty ounces?”

“Assuming the other four are of the same quality.”

“They are identical.”

“And you have no registration, records, paperwork, nothing, correct, Mr. Baldwin?”

“That’s right, and I want no records now. A simple deal, gold for cash, no receipts, no paperwork, no videos, nothing. I came and went and vanished in the night.”

Hassan smiles and offers his right hand. We shake, the deal is done, and we agree to meet at nine the following morning at a deli across the street, one with booths where we can do our counting in private. I leave the ice cream parlor as if I’ve committed a crime and repeat to myself what should be obvious; to wit, it is not against the law to buy and sell gold, at discounted prices or at inflated ones. This is not crack we’re peddling on the street, nor is it inside information from a boardroom. It’s a perfectly legitimate transaction, right?

Anyone watching Hassan and me would swear they were observing two crooks negotiating a crooked deal. Who could blame them? At this point, I am beyond caring.