James Swain - The Program

“What’s your deal?” Drake asked.

“I want you to go back to the prison tonight, and give your contact a bag of cell phones that the FBI will supply you,” Linderman said.

“What do I get in return?”

“Play ball, and I’ll ask the prosecutor to drop all charges against you.”

“You’re yanking my chain.”

“No, I’m not.”

Rucker grabbed his client’s biceps and gave it a squeeze.

“Take it,” the attorney whispered.

“I gotta think about this,” Drake whispered back.

“Take it, before he changes his mind.”

“Is this a sting?” Drake asked Linderman.

“Yes, Eric, it’s a sting.”

“Who are you setting up?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Drake eyelids flickered. Thinking hard about what he was getting himself into, and the consequences once it played out.

“I want a new identity and to be put in witness protection,” Drake blurted out.

“Eric…” the attorney said.

“Shut up,” Drake said. To Linderman he said, “The inmate I rent the cell phones to is named Thunder. Thunder used to run the Latin Kings down in Miami. When he finds out I set him up, he’ll send a posse to kill me, no questions asked.”

“I can put you in witness protection,” Linderman said.

“Do I get to pick the city?”

“Name it.”

“Arizona.”

“Done,” Linderman said.

“When is this sting going down?”

“Tonight.”

“What if Thunder asks about my face? What do I tell him?”

“Tell him were in a car accident.”

“I’ll need you to give me a story. I’m no good at lying.”

“I can give you a story. We can work on it back at your house.”

“All right. I’m in.”

Rucker sprang to his feet and stuck out his hand. Linderman shook it, sealing the deal. Drake cleared his throat and said, “Hold on a minute.”

The tone of Drake’s voice was troubling. Like he was about to drop a bomb on them. Linderman dropped the attorney’s hand and shot Drake a hard stare.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“If this sting goes sideways, I don’t want to get blamed,” Drake said.

“Why would it go sideways?”

“Thunder might find out it’s a sting. He’s a mean sob.”

“If you handle it right, he won’t know a thing.”

“It doesn’t matter how I handle it. Thunder still might find out. Other inmates, too.”

Drake knew something that he wasn’t sharing. Linderman crossed the interrogation room and stopped a foot from Drake’s chair.

“Explain yourself,” the FBI agent said.

“I told you this morning that every inmate is allowed to keep five grand in a bank account,” Drake said. “Thunder uses his money to bribe the guards for information. So do a lot of the other inmates. There are no secrets inside Starke Prison.”

Linderman thought back to Crutch crossing the prison yard while chatting amicably to a guard. It had looked innocent, only now he realized how dangerous it really was.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Linderman said.

An hour later, Drake was released from the lockup. Linderman was waiting outside the PDF in an unmarked van, which he used to drive Drake back to his house on the south side of town. Vaughn Wood and two field agents followed in a second van. The two vehicles parked in Drake’s driveway behind his pickup truck, and everyone got out.

Drake entered the house and went to his bedroom to change. The two field agents accompanied him. As was customary with sting operations, Drake would be watched round-the-clock until the sting took place. They didn’t want Drake to get a change of heart, and tip someone off. The only way to prevent that from happening was by bird-dogging Drake, and making sure he didn’t call anyone.

Linderman sat at the dining room table with a notepad and a pen. He composed a story for Drake to use if Thunder asked him about his busted up face. He tried to keep it simple, in the hopes that Drake would be able to remember it.

Drake appeared freshly showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes. He sat across from Linderman and drummed the table. Linderman looked up from his writing.

“Tell me what I’m gonna say tonight if Thunder questions me,” Drake said.

“Here’s what I came up with.” Linderman looked down at the notepad. “After you left work this morning, you were sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change when a drunk rammed your pickup from behind. You weren’t wearing a seatbelt, and your face hit the dashboard. The bag of cell phones got ruined, and you had to go to Radio Shack and replace them. That’s your story.”

“Let me try.”

Linderman slid the notepad across the table, and Drake recited the story back to him. Coming out his mouth, the words sounded stiff and false. Drake knew it, and slapped his palm on the table.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he said miserably.

“Then simplify it,” Linderman suggested. “Tell Thunder you wrecked your car, and the phones got destroyed. Let him figure out the rest.”

“What if he starts questioning me?”

“Walk away.”

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” Drake mumbled.

Linderman tapped his pen on the table. Drake’s comment that there were no secrets inside Starke Prison had given him food for thought. “Do you know an inmate named Jason Crutchfield? He goes by the nickname Crutch.”

“Everyone knows Crutch,” Drake said.

“Does Crutch bribe the guards?”

“Oh, yeah. Crutch is a big source of cash.”

“Which ones?”

“Mostly to the guards in his cellblock. You know, for information about stuff going on inside the prison. There’s someone else, too.”

Drake was like a little kid who couldn’t keep a secret. Linderman leaned in.

“Who’s that?” the FBI agent asked.

“Alvin Hodges in the records department,” Drake replied. “Crutch pays Alvin so he can get on his computer. Alvin goes out for a smoke, and leaves his computer running so Crutch can surf the Internet.”

Linderman tossed his pen onto the table. Every rock he flipped over, another snake slithered out. Crutch had a cell phone at his disposal, and unobstructed use of the Internet. Had he been a teenager, he would have been sent to his room, only this was a highly intelligent sociopath. Crutch was as dangerous as a lunatic with a loaded gun.

He had to handle this carefully. Once he found out why Crutch was talking to Mr. Clean, he would take his toys away from him, and threaten to get several more years added to his prison sentence. He would put the squeeze on Crutch, and scare him into coughing up what he knew about Danni. It wasn’t ethical, but he didn’t care. He was going to find out what Crutch knew about his daughter’s disappearance before he left Starke.

A loud knock brought Linderman to his feet. He opened the front door to find Woods’s assistant, a freckle-faced, red-haired young woman named Clare, standing on the stoop. Dangling from her hand was a large canvas bag.

“Good afternoon, Special Agent Linderman,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Clare. Yourself?”

“Just terrific. I’ve got the six slave phones you requested. The guys in the lab tested them earlier, and the phones work great. There’s a problem with the satellite, but that should be fixed later this afternoon.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Reception issues. The techs assure me it’s no big deal.”

“Great. Have you gotten a warrant for us to eavesdrop?”

“Yes. We contacted a judge this morning. It’s all been taken care of.”

Clare passed him the canvas bag with a big smile on her face. He’d worked with Clare before; nothing seemed to faze her, and everything was either terrific or great.