John Grisham - The Racketeer

“Interesting, but?”

“I showed Bannister’s photo of the gold to our informant. In his words, they are identical. Bannister has the gold. How much, we have no way of knowing. The cigar box checks out. The gold checks out. Assuming he got the gold from the killer, then he certainly knows the truth.”

“And your theory is?”

“Malcolm Bannister and Quinn Rucker served together at Frostburg, and they were closer friends than we realized. One of them knew about Fawcett and his stash of gold, and they planned their racket. Rucker walks away from prison, goes into rehab for his alibi, and they wait for the killer to strike. He does, and their plan suddenly becomes operational. Bannister squeals on Rucker, who gives a bogus confession, which leads to an immediate indictment, and Bannister walks. Once he’s out, he goes through witness protection, leaves it, somehow finds the killer and the gold.”

“Wouldn’t he have to kill the killer to get his gold?”

Westlake shrugged because he had no idea. “Maybe, but maybe not. Bannister wants immunity, and we’re betting he’ll also demand a Rule 35 release for Rucker. Quinn has five more years on his original sentence, plus a few extra for the escape. If you’re Bannister, why not try to get your buddy out? If the killer is dead, then Rule 35 might not work for Quinn. I don’t know. The lawyers are downstairs scratching their heads.”

“That’s always comforting,” McTavey said. “What’s the downside of dealing with Bannister?”

“We dealt with him last time and he lied to us.”

“Okay, but what does he gain by lying now?”

“Nothing. He has the gold.”

McTavey’s tired and worried face suddenly became jovial. He chuckled, threw his hands into the air, and said, “Beautiful, brilliant, I love it! We gotta hire this guy because he’s a lot smarter than we are. Talk about a set of balls. He gets his dear friend indicted for the capital murder of a federal judge and he knows the entire time he can get it unraveled and walk him out. Are you kidding me? We look like a bunch of fools.”

Westlake couldn’t help but join in the fun. He smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

McTavey said, “He’s not lying, Vic, because he doesn’t have to. Lies were important earlier, during the first phase of the project, but not now. Now it’s time for the truth, and Bannister knows the truth.”

Westlake nodded in agreement. “So what’s our plan?”

“Where’s the U.S. Attorney on this? What’s his name?”

“Mumphrey. He’s squawking about another indictment, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Does he know everything?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t know that we know Fawcett was selling gold in New York.”

“I’m having brunch with the AG in the morning. I’ll explain what we’re doing and he’ll get Mumphrey in line. I suggest the two of you meet with Bannister as soon as possible and tie up the loose ends. I’m really tired of Judge Fawcett, Vic, know what I mean?”

“Yes sir.”

I wait for another delayed flight inside the sweltering terminal of V. C. Bird International Airport, but I’m not the least bit annoyed or anxious. By now, my fourth day on Antigua, my wristwatch is in a drawer and I’m on island time. The changes are subtle, but I am slowly purging my system of the frenetic habits of modern life. My movements are slower; my thoughts, uncluttered; my goals, nonexistent. I’m living for today and casting an occasional, lazy eye at tomorrow; other than that, don’t bother me, mon.

Vanessa looks like a model when she bounces down the steps of the commuter flight from San Juan. A straw hat with a wide brim, designer shades, a summer dress that is delightfully short, and the easy grace of a woman who knows she’s a knockout. Ten minutes later, we’re in the Beetle and I have a hand on her thigh. She informs me she has been fired from her job because of excessive time off. And insubordination. We laugh. Who cares?

We go straight to lunch at the Great Reef Club, on a bluff overlooking the ocean, with a view that is hypnotic. The crowd is well-heeled and British. We are the only black diners, though all of the staff is of our kind. The food is just okay, and we vow to search out the local joints so we can eat with real people. I guess we’re technically rich, but it seems impossible to think in those terms. We don’t necessarily want the money as much as we want the freedom and security. I suppose we’ll grow accustomed to a better life.

After a dip in the ocean, Vanessa wants to explore Antigua. We put the top down, find a reggae station on the radio, and fly along the narrow roads like two young lovers finally escaping. Rubbing her legs and watching her smile, I find it difficult to fathom that we have made it this far. I marvel at our luck.

The summit is at the Blue Waters Hotel, on the northwestern tip of the island. I walk into the colonial-style main house, into the breezy lobby, all alone. I spot a couple of agents in bad tourist clothing as they sip sodas and try to appear innocuous. A real tourist here has an easy, casual look, while a Fed posing as a tourist looks like a misfit. I wonder how many agents, assistant attorneys, deputy directors, et cetera, managed to wedge themselves into this quick little trip to the islands, spouses included of course, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I walk through archways, past gingerbread woodwork, along picket fences to a wing where business can be done.

We meet in a small suite on the second level, with a view of the beach. I am greeted by Victor Westlake, Stanley Mumphrey, and four other men whose names I don’t even try to remember. Gone are the dark suits and drab ties, replaced by golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. Though it’s early August, most of the pale legs in the room have not seen the sun. The mood is light; I’ve never seen so many smiles in such an important gathering. These men are elite crime fighters, accustomed to hard, humorless days, and this little diversion is a dream for them.

I have one final, nagging doubt that this could be a setup. I could be walking into a trap, with these boys ready to spring an indictment, a warrant, an extradition order, and whatever else it might take to drag me back to jail. In that event, Vanessa has a plan, one that assures the protection of our assets. She is two hundred yards away, waiting.

There are no surprises. We’ve talked enough on the phone to know the parameters, and we get down to business. On a speaker-phone, Stanley places a call to Roanoke, to the office of Dusty Shiver, who now represents not only Quinn Rucker but his sister Vanessa and me. When Dusty is on the phone, he makes some lame crack about missing all the fun down in Antigua. The Feds roar with laughter.

We first review the immunity agreement, which basically says the government will not prosecute me, Quinn, Vanessa Young, or Denton Rucker (a.k.a. Dee Ray) for any possible wrongdoing in the murder investigation of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Naomi Clary. It takes fourteen pages to say this, but I’m satisfied with the language. Dusty has reviewed it too and wants a couple of minor changes from Mumphrey’s office. Being lawyers, they are required to haggle for a bit, but eventually come to terms. The document is redrafted, in the room, then signed and e-mailed to a federal magistrate on call in Roanoke. Thirty minutes later, a copy is e-mailed back with the magistrate’s approval and signature. In a legal sense, we are now Teflon.

Quinn’s freedom is a little more complicated. First, there is an Order of Dismissal that clears him of all charges relating to the murders, and it contains some benign language inserted by Mumphrey and his boys that attempts to soften the blame for their misguided prosecution. Dusty and I object, and the language is eventually removed. The order is e-mailed to the magistrate in Roanoke, and he signs it immediately.