John Grisham - The Racketeer

It is July 28. Four months ago I left Frostburg, and two months ago I left Fort Carson with a new face and name. As I try to recall these past few weeks and put them into perspective, I begin to nod off. When we reach our altitude of forty thousand feet, I fall asleep.

Two hours later I am awakened by turbulence and look through the window. We are streaking over a summer thunderstorm and the small jet is getting bounced around. One of the pilots turns around and gives me a thumbs-up-everything’s okay. If you say so, pal. Minutes later the sky is calm again, the storm is behind us, and I gaze down at the beautiful waters of the Caribbean. According to the NavScreen on the bulkhead in front of me, we are about to pass over St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

There are so many beautiful islands down there, and so much variety. When I was in prison, I kept hidden in the library a Fodor’s Guide to the Caribbean , a thick reference book with two dozen color photos, maps, lists of things to do, and brief histories of all the islands. I dreamed that I would one day be loose in the Caribbean, alone with Vanessa, just the two of us on a small sailboat, drifting from island to island in complete and unrestrained freedom. I do not know how to sail and I’ve never owned a boat, but that was Malcolm. Today, Max is starting a new life at forty-three, and if he wants to buy a skiff, learn to sail, and spend the rest of his life drifting from beach to beach, who can stop him?

The plane jolts slightly as the engines cut back a notch. I watch the captain ease down on the throttles as we begin a long descent. There’s a small cooler by the door and I find a beer. We pass over Nevis and St. Kitts in the distance. Those two islands have attractive banking laws too, and I considered them briefly, back when I was at Frostburg and had plenty of time to dwell on my research. I considered the Cayman Islands but learned that they are now terribly overbuilt. The Bahamas are too close to Florida and filthy with U.S. agents. Puerto Rico is a territory, so it never made any of my lists. St. Bart’s has traffic jams. The U.S. Virgins have too much crime. Jamaica is where Nathan now resides. I chose Antigua as my first base of operations because there are seventy-five thousand people, almost all black like me, not overcrowded but not sparsely populated either. It’s a mountainous island with 365 beaches, one for each day, or so say the brochures and Web sites. I chose Antigua because its banks are notoriously flexible and known to look the other way. And, if for some reason the island displeases me, I’ll be quick to move along. There are too many other places to see.

We slam onto the runway and screech to a halt. The captain turns around and mouths the words “Sorry about that.” Pilots take great pride in their smooth landings, and this guy is probably embarrassed. As if I care. The only thing that matters right now is a safe exit from the plane and a smooth entry into the country. There are two other jets at the private terminal, and fortunately a large one has just landed. At least ten adult Americans in shorts and sandals are heading into the building to get processed. I stall long enough to fall in behind them. As the Immigration and Customs agents go through their routines, I realize there are no scanners for the private passengers and their bags. Excellent! I say good-bye to the pilots. Outside the small building, I watch the other Americans load into a waiting van and disappear. I sit on a bench until my cab appears.

The villa is on Willoughby Bay, twenty minutes from the airport. I ride in the back of the cab, windows down, warm salty air blowing in my face, as we twist around one side of a mountain and slowly descend the other. In the distance, there are dozens of small boats moored in a bay, resting on blue water that seems perfectly still.

It is a furnished two-bedroom condo in a cluster of the same, not directly facing the beach but close enough to hear the waves break. It’s leased in my current name, and the three-month rental was covered by a Skelter Films check. I pay the cabdriver and walk through the front gate of Sugar Cove. A pleasant lady in the office gives me the key and a booklet on the ins and outs of the unit. I let myself in, turn on the fans and air-conditioning, and check out the rooms. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the ocean.

At precisely 5:30 p.m., Stanley Mumphrey and two of his underlings gathered around a speaker in the center of a conference room table. Within seconds, the voice of Victor Westlake came on, and after quick hellos Westlake said, “So, Stan, what do you make of it?”

Stanley, who’d been thinking of nothing else since receiving the e-mail four hours earlier, replied, “Well, Vic, it seems to me that we first need to decide whether we’re going to believe this guy again, don’t you think? I mean, he admits he got it wrong the last time. He doesn’t admit to lying to us, but instead says he just made a mistake. He’s playing games.”

“It will be hard to trust him again,” Westlake said.

“Do you know where he is right now?” Mumphrey asked.

“He just flew from Miami to Antigua, on a private jet. Last Friday, he flew from Roanoke to Jamaica on a private jet, then reentered the country Sunday as Malcolm Bannister.”

“Any idea what he’s doing with all these weird movements?”

“Not a clue, Stan. We’re baffled. He’s proven himself quite adept at disappearing and at moving money around.”

“Right. I have a scenario, Vic. Suppose he lied to us about Quinn Rucker. Maybe Rucker is part of the scheme and he played along so Bannister could get himself out of prison. Now they’re trying to save Rucker’s ass. Sounds like a conspiracy to me. Lying, conspiracy. What if we pop them with a sealed indictment, scoop up Bannister and throw him back in jail, then see how much he knows about the real killer. He might be more talkative from the other side of the bars.”

“So you believe him now?” Westlake asked.

“Didn’t say that, Vic, not at all. But if his e-mail is true, and if Dusty Shiver has an alibi, then we’re screwed with this prosecution.”

“Should we talk to Dusty?”

“We won’t have to. If he’s got the evidence, we’ll see it soon enough. One thing I can’t figure out, one of many, is why they sat on the evidence for so long.”

“Same here,” Westlake said. “One theory we’re floating is that Bannister needed the time to find the killer, if, of course, we are to believe him. Frankly, I don’t know what to believe at this point. What if Bannister knows the truth? We have nothing on our end. We don’t have a shred of physical evidence. The confession is shaky. And if Dusty has a smoking gun, then we’re all about to eat a bullet.”

Mumphrey said, “Let’s indict them and squeeze them. I’ll call in the grand jury tomorrow, and we’ll have an indictment within twenty-four hours. How much trouble will it be grabbing Bannister in Antigua?”

“A pain in the ass. He’ll have to be extradited. Could take months. Plus, he might vanish again. This guy is good. Let me talk to the boss before you call in the grand jury.”

“Okay. But if Bannister wants immunity, then it sounds as though he’s committed a crime and wants a deal, right?”

Westlake paused a second, then said, “It’s pretty rare for an innocent man to ask for immunity. It happens, but not very often. What crime are you thinking about?”

“Nothing definite, but we’ll find one. Racketeering comes to mind. I’m sure we can bend RICO to fit these facts. Conspiracy to impede the judicial process. Lying to the court and the FBI. Come to think of it, the indictment is growing the longer we talk. I’m getting pissed, Vic. Bannister and Rucker were pals at Frostburg and cooked up this scheme. Rucker walked away in December. Judge Fawcett was killed in February. And now it looks like Bannister fed us a bunch of crap about Rucker and his motives. Don’t know about you, Vic, but I’m beginning to feel as though we’ve been duped.”