John Grisham - The Racketeer

He waited five years before he strong-armed Judge Fawcett, tortured Naomi Clary, robbed the safe, and executed both of them.

“And who, exactly, is Nattie?” Westlake asks. All six of the men are staring at me.

“His name is Nathan Edward Cooley, and you’ll find him in the city jail in Montego Bay, Jamaica. Take your time, he’s not going anywhere.”

“Might he also be known as Nathaniel Coley, your friend with the fake passport?”

“That’s him. He’s looking at twenty years in a Jamaican prison, so he might make this easy for you. My hunch is that Nattie will happily plead guilty to a life sentence in a U.S. prison, no parole of course, anything to get out of Jamaica. Offer him a deal, and you won’t have to bother with a trial.”

There is a long pause as they catch their collective breath. Finally, Vic asks, “Is there anything you have not thought of?”

“Sure. But I’d rather not share it with you.”

My storytelling talents hold them spellbound, and for an hour they pepper me with questions. I slog through the answers, and when I start to repeat myself, I get irritated. Give a bunch of lawyers the rich details of a mystery they’ve lost sleep over, and they can’t help but ask the same question five different ways. My low opinion of Victor Westlake is raised somewhat when he says, “That’s it. Meeting’s over. I’m going to the bar.”

I suggest the two of us have drinks alone, and we return to the same table by a pool. We order beers and gulp them when they arrive. “Something else?” he asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. Something almost as big as the murder of a federal judge.”

“Haven’t you had enough for one day?”

“Oh yes, but I have one parting shot.”

“I’m listening.”

I take another swig and savor the taste. “If my time line is correct, Judge Fawcett was accepting and hiding pure gold in the middle of the uranium trial. The plaintiff was Armanna Mines, a consortium of companies with interests around the world. However, the majority partner is a Canadian company based in Calgary, and this company owns two of the five largest gold mines in North America. The uranium deposits in Virginia alone are worth an estimated $20 billion, but no one really knows for sure. If a corrupt federal judge wants a few gold bars in return for a payoff of $20 billion, why not do it? The company gave Fawcett his jackpot; he gave them everything they wanted.”

“How much gold?” Westlake asks softly, as though he doesn’t want his own hidden mike to hear.

“We’ll never know, but I suspect Fawcett received around $10 million in pure gold. He cashed in here and there. You have the informant in New York, but we’ll never know if it went elsewhere and traded on the black market. Nor will we ever know how much cash was in the safe when Nathan finally got to it.”

“Nathan might tell us.”

“Indeed, but don’t count on it. Anyway, the grand total is beside the point. It’s a lot of money, or gold, and for it to travel from Armanna Mines into the somber chambers of the Honorable Raymond Fawcett, someone had to be the bagman. Someone arranged the deal and made the deliveries.”

“One of the lawyers?”

“Probably. I’m sure Armanna had a dozen.”

“Any clue?”

“None whatsoever. But I’m convinced a massive crime has occurred, with serious implications. The U.S. Supreme Court will hear the case this October, and given the pro-business leanings of the majority, it’s likely Fawcett’s gift to the uranium miners will stand. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it, Vic? A corrupt opinion becomes a law. A huge mining company bribes its way past the statutory ban and is given carte blanche to wreck the environment of southern Virginia.”

“Why do you care? You’re not going back there, or so you say.”

“My feelings are not important, but the FBI should care. If you launch an investigation, the case could be seriously derailed.”

“So now you’re telling the FBI how to run its business.”

“Not at all. But don’t expect me to remain quiet. Have you heard of an investigative reporter named Carson Bell?”

His shoulders sag as he looks away. “No.”

“ New York Times . He covered the uranium trial and has followed the appeals. I would make an incredible unnamed source.”

“Don’t do that, Max.”

“You can’t stop me. If you don’t investigate, I’m sure Mr. Bell would love to. Front page and all that. FBI cover-up.”

“Don’t do it. Please. Give us some time.”

“You have thirty days. If I hear nothing of an investigation, then I’ll invite Mr. Bell down for a week on my little island.” I drain my beer, smack the table with my glass, and get to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re just getting revenge, aren’t you, Max? One last shot at the government.”

“Who says it’s my last?” I say over my shoulder.

I leave the hotel and hoof it down the long drive. At the end, Vanessa appears in the Beetle and we race away. Ten minutes later we park outside the private terminal, grab our light bags, and meet the Maritime Aviation crew in the lobby. Our passports are checked, and we hustle toward the same Learjet 35 that brought me to Antigua a week earlier. “Let’s get out of here,” I say to the captain as we climb on board.

Two and a half hours later, we land at Miami International as the sun dips below the horizon. The Lear taxis to a Customs office for reentry, then we wait half an hour for a cab. Inside the main terminal, Vanessa buys a one-way ticket to Richmond, through Atlanta, and we hug and kiss good-bye. I wish her good luck, and she does the same. I rent a car and find a motel.

At nine the next morning, I’m waiting outside Palmetto Trust when the doors are unlocked. My carry-on bag has wheels and I roll it into the vault. Within minutes, I extract $50,000 in cash and three Lavo cigar boxes containing eighty-one mini-bars. On my way out, I do not mention to the vault clerk that I will never return. The lease for the safe-deposit box will expire in a year, and the bank will simply re-key and rent it to the next guy. I fight the early traffic and eventually make it to Interstate 95, going north in a hurry but careful not to get stopped. Jacksonville is six hours away. The tank is full and I plan to drive without stopping.

North of Fort Lauderdale, Vanessa calls with the welcome news that her mission is accomplished. She has retrieved the bullion hidden in her apartment, emptied the three lockboxes in the Richmond banks, and is already headed for D.C. with a trunkful of gold.

I get stalled in construction traffic around Palm Beach, and this ruins my plans for the afternoon. The banks will be closed when I arrive at the Jacksonville beaches. I have no choice but to slow down and go with the flow. It’s after six when I get to Neptune Beach, and for old time’s sake I check into a motel I’ve used before. It accepts cash and I park near my room on the ground level. I roll the carry-on inside and fall asleep with it on the bed with me. Vanessa wakes me at ten. She is safely tucked away in Dee Ray’s condo near Union Station. Quinn is there and they are having a delightful reunion. For this phase of the operation, Dee Ray has broken up with his live-in girlfriend and moved her out. In his opinion, she cannot be trusted. She is not family, and she’s certainly not the first girl he has cast aside. I pass along my request to hold the champagne for twenty-four hours.

We-Vanessa, Dee Ray, and I-expressed strong misgivings about Quinn including his estranged wife in our plot. A divorce looks likely, and it’s best if she knows nothing at this point.

Once again, I find myself killing a few minutes in the parking lot of a bank, First Coast Trust. When the doors open at 9:00 a.m., I wander in, as nonchalantly as possible, pulling an empty carry-on and flirting with the clerks. Just another sunny day in Florida. Alone in the vault, in a private stall, I remove two Lavos cigar boxes and place them gently into the carry-on. Minutes later, I’m driving a few blocks to a branch of Jacksonville Savings. When that lockbox is empty, I make my final stop at a Wells Fargo branch in Atlantic Beach. By ten I’m back on Interstate 95, headed to D.C. with 261 golden bricks in the trunk. Only the five I sold to Hassan for cash have disappeared.