(1976) The R Document

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take those damn cuffs off, will-you? This isn’t that kind of meeting.’

  Tynan heard the jangle of keys, and saw the warden unlocking the handcuffs and removing them. He watched the prisoner massaging his freed wrists. He heard the warden say, ‘You can get into the back seat.’

  Donald Radenbaugh stooped to enter the car. His head and face were visible now. He hadn’t changed much in his nearly three years of incarceration. Thinner, perhaps, slightly, in his oversized dull gray prison garb. He had a dry bald head, a blond fringe of hair and sideburns, eyes made smaller by the bags under them behind steel-rimmed glasses, a thin sallow face and thin pointed nose, with an untidy, diminutive blond moustache beneath it, and a weak chin. He was pale and sullen. Probably five feet ten, Tynan guessed, and maybe 170 pounds.

  He had climbed into the car and sunk into the back seat, as far away from Tynan as possible.

  Tynan made no effort to shake his hand. ‘Hello, Don,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I suppose it has.’

  ‘Would you like a cigarette? Harry, give him a cigarette, and your lighter.’

  Radenbaugh held out his hand to accept the cigarette and the lighter. After he lit the cigarette, he returned the lighter. He drew heavily on the cigarette twice, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and seemed more relaxed.

  ‘Well, Don,’ Tynan resumed, ‘how’ve you been?’

  Radenbaugh grunted. ‘That’s a helluva question.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ asked Tynan solicitously. ‘I thought they had you in the prison library.’

  ‘I’m in jail,’ said Radenbaugh bitterly. ‘I’m in jail, cooped up like an animal, and I’m innocent.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Tynan. I guess it’s never good.’

  ‘It’s rotten,’ said Radenbaugh. ‘There’s everything to protect you from us - sliding steel doors, triple locks, sensors on the concrete wall. But there’s nothing to protect us on the inside - beatings, knifings, rapings, dope peddling. The cage and key men, the hacks - prisonese for guards -I guess I’m beginning to talk like the rest of them - each one trying to act tougher than the other. Lousy food, no exercise, and a cell six feet by eleven. How would you like to spend your best years on a planet six feet by eleven? The big event is getting a haircut. Or maybe a letter from your daughter. It stinks. Especially when you’re innocent. There’s just no hope.’

  He lapsed into angry silence, inhaling and exhaling the cigarette smoke.

  Tynan studied him in the gloom. ‘Yeah, the lack of hope -I guess that’s the worst of it,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Too bad about Noah Baxter. I guess he was your second-to-last chance to get out of here earlier. Too bad.’

  Radenbaugh glanced up sharply. ‘My second-to-last chance?’ he repeated. ‘Yeah. I’m your last chance, Don.’ Radenbaugh’s gaze held on him. ‘You?’ ‘Me.’ Tynan nodded. ‘Yes, me. I came here to offer you a deal, Don. Strictly business, and between us. I can give you something you want. Freedom. You can give me something I want. Money. Are you ready to listen?’

  Radenbaugh did not speak. But he was listening.

  ‘Okay,’ continued Tynan, ‘let me give it to you all at once, short and sweet. You’ve got a million dollars in cash stashed away somewhere in Florida. Let’s not argue if you’ve got it or not. I’ve read the record over carefully. A reliable witness swore you left Washington with the money. You were to deliver it in Miami. You never delivered it. You knew you were fingered, so you never delivered it. When you were picked up, you didn’t have it.’

  “Maybe I never had the money,’ said Radenbaugh calmly. ‘Maybe I was telling the truth.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Tynan agreeably. ‘Again, maybe not. Maybe you buried it. For a rainy day. Let’s just go on that assumption. That you buried it. If I’m right, then there’s a nice cool million in cash somewhere down there in Florida. It’s not earning you a dime interest. It should. It should be worth something to you - not in twelve years from now, but right this minute, today. What can money like that buy? Well, what do you want more than anything in the world? Freedom? You said it yourself, prison is rotten, stinking. You want out. I can’t make you innocent when the court said you were guilty. But I can make you a free man. Do you want to hear more?’

  Radenbaugh reached toward the door, rolled down the window a few inches, and threw away the butt of his cigarette. Reclining again, he turned his head toward Tynan. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘That million dollars,’ said Tynan. ‘I need part of it. I’m no hog. I could ask for it all, and maybe get it. I’m not asking for it all. I want only part of it - let’s say for an investment. In return, I’ll cut your fifteen-year-sentence down to what you’ve served, as of tonight, or a few nights from tonight. It’s not easy, but I can arrange it. For your part, you’d then go down to Miami, dig up your money, deliver part of it to an intermediary. You’d deliver $750,000 to the intermediary, and you’d keep the remaining $250,000 to get a fresh start. And our deal would be satisfactorily concluded. How does that grab you?’

  He eyed Radenbaugh, but Radenbaugh gave no response.

  He sat staring straight ahead, lips compressed, face tight.

  ‘Okay, I guess you want to know a few details,’ Tynan went on. ‘There’s one catch. You’ll have to go along with it, or the whole deal’s off. I told you this wasn’t easy. It isn’t. I’m not empowered to parole you or free you. No one is, except members of the parole board - and I happen to know they won’t let you out - not until the next twelve years are served. I can’t get Donald Radenbaugh out of Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. But I can get you out.’

  Radenbaugh looked at the Director now.

  ‘It’s tricky, but I can manage it,’ continued Tynan. ‘To protect both of us, you’d have to take on a new identity the day you were released. It’s not simple, but it can be done. It’s been done successfully before. Since 1970, at least 500 informers, Government witnesses, persons who turned state’s evidence have been given new identities by the Chief of Criminal Intelligence in the Department of Justice, and they’ve been secretly relocated. It’s worked every time, and it can work again. Only this time I couldn’t do it through the Department of Justice. I’d have to handle it myself.’

  Tynan sought some reaction from Radenbaugh. There was none. Tynan continued.

  ‘First, we’d get rid of Donald Radenbaugh. That’s a must, to make it all come off. Warden Jenkins would put out a story that you were dead - that you had died of a heart attack or were stabbed to death. Probably that you died of natural causes. Less fuss. Next, we’d release you. We’d get rid of your fingerprints, alter your appearance, give you a completely new identity, new name, and papers with everything from a birth certificate to a Social Security card to an auto rental credit card and driver’s license to back up that new name. You’d be on your own from next week on -totally free, fully alive, and with a fat bankroll. But remember, there’d be no more Radenbaugh. I know you have a daughter, some other relatives, friends, but they’d be in mourning. They could never know the truth. I realize that might be rough on you, but it’s part of the price you pay for the deal - that and the $750,000.’

  Tynan halted, and looked absently out the car window before finally shifting around to Radenbaugh.

  ‘There you have it,’ Tynan said. He tried to make out the hands on his wristwatch. ‘We’ve just about run out of time, Don. You’ve heard my first and last offer. You’ve got to decide Yes or No. If you choose to say No„ and prefer to rot in prison for another twelve years, and are lucky enough to avoid being stabbed to death, and at last get out when you’re an old man - well, you can keep all the money and keep your old name - that’s your choice. If you choose to say Yes, then there’s no more prison, you’re free, and you still keep a sizeable share of the money, and you’ve got a new life you can enjoy as another person. That’s also your choice.’

  Tynan paused to let it
sink in.

  After a few moments, Tynan resumed with emphasis. ‘It has to be one or the other tonight. In the next five minutes, in fact. If it’s No, then you can open that door and get out, and Jenkins will be waiting with the handcuffs to take you back to your cell. If it’s Yes - just say the word - then I’ll instruct you and the warden, you’ll do as you are told, and in a week you’ll have a quarter of a million dollars and a free life. When you leave prison, you’ll only have to follow the simple instructions that’ll be in the pocket of your new suit along with an air ticket to Miami and a hotel reservation.’

  Tynan paused.

  ‘Okay, Don,’ he said softly, ‘it’s up to you. What’s your decision?’

  *

  It was not until five days later that Chris Collins got to Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary.

  After his flight back to Washington from Los Angeles, Collins had reported to President Wadsworth on his visit to California. The report had been brief, because Collins had omitted much of his actual activity. He had made up his mind, at least for now, not to reveal to the President the visit to Tule Lake; the conference with State Assemblymen Keefe, Yurkovich, and Tobias; the private meeting with Chief Justice Maynard. He could not speak of these matters

  because he was, as yet, uncertain of the President’s own role in the suspicious happenings in California. Instead, he had discussed his television debate with Tony Pierce. Then he had spoken at length of his speech to the American Bar Association. He had tried to make it sound like a triumph, but the President had been well informed and had bluntly voiced his disappointment. ‘You underplayed and understated our case for the 35th Amendment,’ he had told Collins. ‘I really intended to have you come on stronger. Nevertheless, things are looking up. We had some good news today.’

  The good news had proved to be Ronald Steedman’s latest poll of the California Legislature. In the State Assembly, among the members prepared to take a position, those favoring the Amendment led those opposing it 65 per cent to 35 per cent. In the State Senate the findings had been closer, with 55 per cent for and 45 per cent against. With difficulty, Collins had masked his dismay.

  By then, Collins had been obsessed by his desire to visit Lewisburg, to get to his one remaining possible source on the secret of The R Document, and he had hoped to make the trip his second or third day back in Washington. But demands on his time by the President and by his own Criminal Division and Civil Rights Division had made an immediate trip impossible.

  At last, through his subordinates in the Bureau of Prisons, he had arranged the trip.

  Knowing that he could not explain or justify the real purpose of the visit, he had invented a phony one. He was working on recommendations for a revised Prisoner Rehabilitation Act, and to do so he must make a tour of Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary.

  And so, in step with Warden Bruce Jenkins, he was making a hasty inspection of the prison. He had endured the clothing and sheet-metal factories; had visited the classrooms, the hospital, the library; had suffered closely supervised interviews with inmates in their cells.

  Now the last of the inspection tour was over, and for Collins the most important part of it was to begin.

  He had begged off having lunch, claiming an important appointment in New York.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Warden Jenkins inquired.

  ‘You’ve done quite enough,’ said Collins graciously. ‘I have everything I need. I’d better … ‘ He hesitated, effectively. ‘As a matter of fact, there is one more thing. We have a tax case going, and the name of one of your inmates has come up constantly. I wonder if I could see him in private for five or ten minutes?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Warden Jenkins. ‘Just tell me who it is, and I’ll have him brought in and you can talk to him alone.’

  ‘His name is Radenbaugh. Donald Radenbaugh. I’d like to see him.’

  Warden Jenkins did not hide his surprise. ‘You mean you didn’t see this morning’s paper? Or watch TV?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Donald Radenbaugh is dead. I’m sorry. He died three days ago. Dropped dead of a heart attack. We withheld the story until his next of kin could be located. We released it last night. It was announced early today.’

  ‘Dead,’ said Collins hollowly. He felt ill. Then his one high hope of learning about The R Document was dead also.

  ‘Your timing was off by three days,’ said Jenkins. ‘Bad luck.’

  In despair, Collins was preparing to make his immediate departure, when suddenly a thought struck him. ‘Did you say you withheld the news three days because you had to locate Radenbaugh’s next of kin?’

  ‘Yes. He had a daughter in Philadelphia. She happened to be out of the city. We finally found her - not only to notify her of the death but to determine disposition of the body. With her consent, we buried him locally at Government expense.’

  ‘How did she take the news?’

  “Naturally, she was pretty broken up by it.’

  ‘Are you saying Radenbaugh was close to his daughter?’

  ‘Except for former Attorney General Baxter - who’d

  been a friend - Susie was the only one who stayed in touch with him regularly.’

  ‘Do you have her address?’

  ‘Not actually…’

  ‘How did you notify her?’

  ‘She has a post-office box at the main post office in Philadelphia. We wired her, and when she got it, she phoned us.’

  ‘Can I have her post-office-box number, Warden?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ He went to his desk, peeled through a series of folders, and opened one. ‘It’s P.O. Box 153, William Perm Annex post-office station, Philadelphia 19105.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Collins. ‘And you say she was in touch with her father regularly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe she knew some of his business. Maybe she could help me.’

  ‘Maybe. But I doubt it’

  ‘I doubt it too,’ said Collins, discouraged. ‘We’ll see.’

  *

  It had been an incredibly streamlined operation. So far it had gone without a hitch.

  Seated in the rocking cabin of the sleek motorboat as it zoomed across the artificial channel that separated the southern tip of Miami Beach from Fisher’s Island, he tried to review the events of the past week.

  Six nights ago, in a wooded area outside Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary, he had parted from FBI Director Vernon T. Tynan, agreeing to make the bizarre deal offered to Donald Radenbaugh, convict.

  Two nights ago, crouched in the rear of the warden’s car, he had been driven out of the sleep-stilled prison as Herbert Miller, citizen and free man.

  Since his meeting with Tynan, there had been only one visitor he knew by name, and that had been Tynan’s assistant, Harry Adcock. There had been three others also, but they had been nameless. Radenbaugh recalled that he had been placed in solitary confinement, to isolate him from the

  other inmates. In solitary, he had hosted an elderly man with a limp who had applied acid to change - painfully - his fingerprints. Next there had been an optician to take away his steel-rimmed spectacles and fit him with contact lenses. Then there had been a barber, who had shaved off his moustache and sideburns, dyed his fringe of blond hair a deep black, and fitted him with a black hairpiece. Finally, there had been Adcock, with papers (a birth certificate, an honorable discharge from the U.S. Army) and cards (a driver’s license, a car-rental credit card, a Social Security card) to replace the credentials in his old wallet and to transform him officially into the respectable Herbert Miller, aged fifty-nine. There had been a dark brown suit of the latest cut to replace the one he had worn to prison, which was no longer in style and thus might be conspicuous.

  There had been Adcock’s oral instructions. Immediately after his release, he was to proceed to Miami on a red-eye flight. In Miami, a room had been reserved for Herbert Miller in the Bayamo Hotel, located on West Flagler Street. The following day or
evening, he would be free to dig up his hidden one million dollars. He would not be followed. Late morning of the next day, he would meet with a realtor named Mrs Remos in the suburban community of Coconut Grove and from her get the name of a safe plastic surgeon in the area who would perform cosmetic surgery around his eyes before he left Miami. That night, he would go to a waiting motorboat at the Municipal Pier in Miami Beach and be taken to Fisher’s Island. There, at the first oil-storage tank, he would be hailed as Miller. He would give the password twice, the password being ‘Linda’. He would drop the package containing three-quarters of a million dollars and return to his boat. Back in Miami Beach, he could proceed with his surgery. After that, he would be totally free to go where he wished, do what he liked.

  ‘You’ll get your new suit just before you leave prison,’ Adcock had said. ‘In the right-hand side pocket there will be an envelope. In it will be your air ticket to Miami, the location of your rendezvous with the motorboat, a map of Fisher’s Island showing you where the drop is to be made, and enough money to carry you until you get your hands on

  your quarter share of the loot. Just do what you’ve been told. Don’t get any tricky ideas. They’ll only endanger your health. Got it?’

  He had got it all.

  He had taken the red-eye special and arrived at Miami International Airport on schedule.

  He had checked into the dilapidated Bayamo Hotel on schedule.

  He had rented a car, constantly making certain he was not being watched or followed, and had driven into the Everglades west of Miami. There he made his way on foot to the bank of the mangrove swamp where he had secreted the million dollars in a metal box over three years ago. He had emptied the contents of the box into some grocery bags he had acquired, placed the bags in a suitcase he had purchased, and retraced his steps to his car.

  The rest had gone easily. In his hotel room, he had removed a quarter of a million from the suitcase and placed it in a second suitcase that he had had ready. At night, he had taken the second suitcase, with his share of the money, to Miami International Airport and shoved it inside a locker. Leaving the airport, he had picked up a copy of the next morning’s Miami Herald. Scanning it, he speculated about whether the demise of the late Donald Radenbaugh had been announced yet. On the sixth page he had found an unflattering three-year-old picture of the bald, bespectacled Radenbaugh, and his obituary. It had felt strange to read of his own death, to learn how little he had achieved and how overshadowed it had been by the summary of his felony trial and conviction. It was unfair. It had not said that he was innocent. And finally, he had grieved for his beloved Susie, left with such a legacy. He wondered if he would ever dare contact her and reveal the truth. He knew he dared not. People who could invent a new human being were people not to be crossed.