by John Grisham
“I was in court for my nephew. That’s all.”
The tag team paused at the same moment. Delocke took a sip of his Red Bull. Pankovits said, “I need to go to the men’s room. You okay, Quinn?”
Quinn was pinching his forehead. “Sure,” he replied.
“Get you something to drink?”
“How about a Sprite?”
“You got it.”
Pankovits took his time. Quinn sipped his drink. At 4:30, the interrogation was resumed when Delocke asked, “So, Quinn, have you kept up with the news during the past three months? Read any newspapers? Surely you’ve been curious about your own escape and whether or not it’s made the news?”
Quinn said, “Not really.”
“Did you hear about Judge Fawcett?”
“Nope. What about him?”
“Murdered, shot twice in the back of the head.”
No reaction from Quinn. No surprise. No pity. Nothing.
“You didn’t know that, Quinn?” Pankovits asked.
“No.”
“Two hollow-point bullets, fired from a.38-caliber handgun identical to the one we found in your trailer. Preliminary ballistics report says there’s a 90 percent chance your gun was used to kill the judge.”
Quinn began smiling and nodding. “Now I get it, this is all about a dead judge. You boys think I killed Judge Fawcett, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Great. So we have wasted, what, seven hours with this bullshit. You’re wasting my time, your time, Dee Ray’s time, everybody’s time. I ain’t killed nobody.”
“Have you ever been to Ripplemead, Virginia, population five hundred, deep in the mountains west of Roanoke?”
“No.”
“It’s the nearest town to a small lake where the judge was murdered. There are no black people in Ripplemead, and when one shows up, he gets noticed. The day before the judge was murdered, a black man matching your description was in town, according to the owner of a gas station.”
“A positive ID, or just a wild guess?”
“Something in between. We’ll show him a better photo of you tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you will, and I’ll bet his memory improves greatly.”
“It usually does,” Delocke said. “Four miles west of Ripplemead the world comes to an end. The asphalt stops, and a series of gravel roads disappear into the mountains. There’s an old country store called Peacock’s, and Mr. Peacock sees everything. The day before the murder, he says a black man stopped by asking for directions. Mr. Peacock can’t remember the last time he saw a black man in his part of the world. He gave a description. Matches you very well.”
Quinn shrugged and said, “I’m not that stupid.”
“Really? Then why did you hang on to the Smith amp; Wesson? When we get the final ballistics report, you’re dead, Quinn.”
“The gun’s stolen, okay? Stolen guns make the rounds. I bought it from a pawnshop in Lynchburg two weeks ago. It’s probably changed hands a dozen times in the past year.”
A good point, and one they could not argue with, at least not until the ballistics tests were completed. When they had the proof, though, no jury would believe Quinn’s story about a stolen gun.
Pankovits said, “We found a pair of combat boots in your mini-storage unit. A cheap pair of fake Army surplus, canvas, camouflage, all that crap. They are fairly new and have not been used that much. Why do you need combat boots, Quinn?”
“I have weak ankles.”
“Nice. How often do you wear them?”
“Not often if they’re in storage. I tried them, they rubbed a blister, I forgot about them. What’s the point?”
“The point is that they match a boot print we took from the soil not far from the cabin where Judge Fawcett was murdered,” Pankovits said, lying but doing so effectively. “A match, Quinn. A match that puts you at the scene.”
Quinn dropped his chin and rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and tired. “What time is it?”
“Four fifty,” Delocke replied.
“I need some sleep.”
“Well, that might be difficult, Quinn. We checked with the county jail and your cell is quite crowded. Eight men, four bunks. You’ll be lucky to get a spot on the floor.”
“I don’t think I like that jail. Could we try another one?”
“Sorry. Wait till you see death row, Quinn.”
“I ain’t going to death row because I didn’t kill anybody.”
Pankovits said, “Here’s where we are, Quinn. Two witnesses put you in the vicinity at the time of the murder, and the vicinity is not exactly a busy street corner. You were there and you were noticed and remembered. Ballistics will nail your ass. The boot print is icing on the cake. That’s the crime scene. After the crime, it gets even better, or worse, depending on one’s perspective. You were in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found, Tuesday, February 8, by your own admission and by way of the city’s jail records and court docket. And suddenly you had a satchelful of cash. You posted bond, then paid $24,000 for the Hummer, pissed away plenty more, and when we finally catch you, there’s another stash hidden in a mini-storage. Motive? There’s plenty of motive. You had a deal with Judge Fawcett to rule in favor of Jakeel Staley. You bribed him, something like $500,000, and after he took the cash, he forgot about the deal. He threw the book at Jakeel, and you vowed revenge. Eventually, you got it. Unfortunately, his secretary got in the way too.”
Delocke said, “A death penalty case, Quinn, open and shut. Federal death penalty.”
Quinn’s eyes closed as his body shrank. He began breathing rapidly as sweat formed above his eyebrows. A minute passed, then another. The tough guy was gone. His replacement said weakly, “You got the wrong guy.”
Pankovits laughed, and Delocke, sneering, said, “Is that the best you can do?”
“You got the wrong guy,” Quinn repeated, but with even less conviction.
“That sounds pretty lame, Quinn,” Delocke said. “And it’ll sound even weaker in the courtroom.”
Quinn stared at his hands as another minute passed. Finally, he said, “If you boys know so much, what else do you want?”
Pankovits replied, “There are a few gaps. Did you act alone? How did you open the safe? Why did you kill the secretary? What happened to the rest of the money?”
“Can’t help you there. I don’t know nothing about it.”
“You know everything, Quinn, and we’re not leaving until you fill in the gaps.”
“Then I guess we’re going to be here for a long time,” Quinn said. He leaned forward, placed his head on the table, and said, “I’m taking a nap.”
Both agents stood and picked up their files and notepads. “We’ll take a break, Quinn. We’ll be back in half an hour.”
CHAPTER 15
Though pleased with the progress of the interrogation, Victor Westlake was worried. There were no witnesses, no ballistics report linking Quinn’s.38 to the crime scene, no boot print, and no simultaneous interrogation of Dee Ray. There was motive, if they believed Malcolm Bannister’s story about the bribe. The strongest evidence so far was the fact that Quinn Rucker was in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found and that he had too much cash. Westlake and his team were exhausted from the all-nighter, and it was still dark outside. They reloaded with coffee and took long walks around the Freezer. They occasionally checked on the screen for images of their suspect. Quinn was lying on the table but not sleeping.
At 6:00 a.m., Pankovits and Delocke returned to the interrogation room. Each had a tall glass with a refill of Red Bull and ice. Quinn got off the table and settled himself into his chair for another round.
Pankovits went first. “Just got off the phone with the U.S. Attorney, Quinn. We briefed him on our progress here with you, and he says his grand jury will convene tomorrow and hand down the indictment. Two counts of capital murder.”
“Congratulations,” Quinn replied. “I guess I’d better find me a lawyer.”
>
“Sure, but it might take more than one. I’m not sure how much you understand about federal racketeering laws, Quinn, but they can be brutal. The U.S. Attorney will take the position that the murders of Judge Fawcett and his secretary were the actions of a gang, a well-known and well-organized gang, with you, of course, as the triggerman. The indictment will include a lot of charges, including capital murder, but also bribery. And, most important, it will name not only you but other nefarious characters such as Tall Man, Dee Ray, one of your sisters, your cousin Antoine Beck, and a couple dozen other relatives.”
Delocke added, “You guys can have your own wing on death row. The Rucker-Beck gang, all lined up, cell to cell, just waiting for the needle.” Delocke was smiling and Pankovits was amused. A couple of comedians.
Quinn began scratching the side of his head and talking to the floor. “You know, I wonder what my lawyer would say about this, got me locked in this dark room, no windows, all night long, started at, what, ’bout nine last night and here it is six in the morning, nine straight hours of nonstop bullshit from you two, accusing me of bribing a judge, then killing a judge, and now threatening me with death, and not only my ass but my whole family as well. You say you got witnesses out there, all lined up and ready to testify, and ballistics on a stolen gun, and a boot print where some sumbitch stepped in mud, and how am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth or lying your ass off because I wouldn’t trust the FBI with anything, never have, never will. Lied to me the first time I got busted and sent away, and I assume you’re lying here tonight. Maybe I lied a little, but can you honestly tell me right now that you ain’t lied to me tonight? Can you?”
Pankovits and Delocke stared at him. Maybe it was fear, or guilt. Maybe it was delirium. Whatever, Quinn was really talking.
“We are telling the truth,” Pankovits managed to say.
“And chalk up another lie. My lawyer will get to the bottom of this. He’ll nail your ass in court, expose you, expose all your lies. Show me the boot print analysis. Now, I want to see it.”
“We’re not authorized to show it to anyone,” Pankovits said.
“How convenient.” Quinn leaned forward with an elbow on each knee. His forehead almost touched the edge of the table, and he kept talking to the floor. “What about the ballistics report? Can I see that?”
“We’re not authorized-”
“What a surprise. My lawyer’ll get it, whenever and wherever I get to see my lawyer. I’ve asked for him all night, and my rights have been violated.”
“You have not asked for your lawyer,” Delocke said. “You’ve mentioned a lawyer in vague terms, but you have not requested one. And you’ve kept talking.”
“As if I had a choice. Either sit here and talk or go to the drunk tank with a bunch of winos. I’ve been there before, you know, and I ain’t afraid of it. It’s just part of the business, you know? You do the crime, you do the time. You know the rules when you get into the business. You see all your friends and family shipped off, but they come back, you know? You do your time and you get out.”
“Or you escape,” Delocke said.
“That too. Pretty stupid, I guess, but I had to walk.”
“Because you had to settle a score, right, Quinn? For two years in prison you thought about Judge Fawcett every day. He took your money, then he broke the deal. In your business, he had to go down, right?”
“That’s right.”
Quinn was rubbing his temples, staring at his feet, almost mumbling. The agents took a deep breath and exchanged a quick smile. Finally, the first hint of an admission.
Pankovits rearranged some papers and said, “Now, Quinn, let’s look at where we are. You’ve just admitted Judge Fawcett had to go down, is that right? Quinn?”
Quinn was still leaning on his elbows, staring at the floor, rocking now as if in a daze. He did not respond.
Delocke read from his legal pad and said, “According to my notes, Quinn, I asked the question, and I quote, ‘In your business, he had to go down, right?’ and you replied, ‘That’s right.’ Do you deny this, Quinn?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth. Stop it.”
Pankovits jumped in: “Okay, Quinn, we need to inform you of some recent developments. About two hours ago, Dee Ray finally admitted he gave you the cash to pass along to Judge Fawcett, and that he, Tall Man, and some of the others helped you plan the murder. Dee Ray’s come clean, and he’s already got a deal-no death penalty, no capital murder. We picked up Tall Man two hours ago, and now we’re looking for one of your sisters. This is getting ugly.”
“Come on. They don’t know nothing.”
“Of course they do, and they’ll be indicted with you tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that, man. Come on. It’ll kill my mother. Poor woman’s seventy years old and got a bad heart. You can’t be messing with her like that.”
“Then step up, Quinn!” Pankovits said loudly. “Take the heat! You did the crime. As you like to say, now do the time. No sense taking the rest of your family down with you.”
“Step up and do what?”
“Cut a deal. Give us the details, and we lean on the U.S. Attorney to lay off your family,” Pankovits said.
“And there’s something else,” Delocke added. “If we do the right deal, there will be no death penalty. Just life, no parole. Seems the Fawcett family does not believe in the death penalty, nor do they want a long, painful trial. They want the case closed, and the U.S. Attorney will respect their wishes. According to him, he will consider a plea agreement, one that will save your life.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to, Quinn. Just wait a couple of days for the indictments to come down. There could be as many as thirty people named for various charges.”
Quinn Rucker stood slowly and stretched his hands as high as possible. He took a few steps in one direction, then another, and began saying, “Bannister, Bannister, Bannister.”
“Beg your pardon, Quinn,” Pankovits said.
“Bannister, Bannister, Bannister.”
“Who’s Bannister?” Delocke asked.
“Bannister is a rat,” Quinn said bitterly. “Scum, an old friend in Frostburg, a crooked lawyer who claims he’s innocent. Nothing but a rat. Don’t pretend you don’t know him, because you wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t a rat.”
“Never met the man,” Pankovits said. Delocke was shaking his head no.
Quinn sat down and thrust both elbows onto the table. He was wide-awake now, his narrow eyes glaring at the two agents, his thick hands rubbing each other. “So what’s the deal?” he asked.
“We can’t make deals, Quinn, but we can make things happen,” Pankovits said. “For starters, we call off the dogs in D.C., and your family and gang are left alone, for now anyway. The U.S. Attorney has been taking heat for five weeks, ever since the murder, and he’s desperate for some good news. He assures us, and we can assure you, that there will be no capital murder charge and that it will be a stand-alone indictment. Just you, for the two killings. Plain and simple.”
Delocke said, “That’s one half, the other half is a video statement from you confessing to the crimes.”
Quinn wrapped his hands around his head and closed his eyes. A minute passed as he fought himself. “I really want my lawyer,” he finally said through clenched teeth.
Delocke replied, “You can do that, Quinn, of course you can. But Dee Ray and Tall Man are in custody right now, singing like birds, and things are only getting worse. It might be a day or two before your lawyer can get down here. You say the word, and we’ll turn your brothers loose and leave them alone.”
Quinn suddenly snapped and yelled, “All right!”
“All right what?”
“All right, I’ll do it!”
“Not so fast, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “We need to go over a few things first. Let’s review the facts, put things in order, set the stage, make sure we’re all on the same page with the
crime scene. We need to make sure that all important details are included.”
“Okay, okay. But can I have some breakfast?”
“Sure, Quinn, no problem. We have all day.”
CHAPTER 16
One of the few virtues of prison life is the gradual acquisition of patience. Nothing moves at a reasonable pace, and you learn to ignore clocks. Tomorrow will come around soon enough; surviving today is enough of a challenge. After my quick trip to D.C., I roam around Frostburg for a couple of days reminding myself that I have become a very patient person, that the FBI will move quickly, and, regardless, there is nothing more I can do. Much to my surprise, and relief, events unfold rapidly.
I do not expect the FBI to keep me in the loop, so I have no way of knowing they have arrested Quinn Rucker and that he has confessed. This news is delivered by the Washington Post, on Saturday, March 19, front page, beneath the fold: SUSPECT ARRESTED IN MURDER OF FEDERAL JUDGE. There is a large black-and-white photo of Quinn, one of his mug shots, and I stare into his eyes as I take a seat in the coffee room just after breakfast. The article is rather light on facts but heavy on suspicion. Obviously, all news is being parceled out by the FBI, so there’s not much detail. The arrest, in Norfolk, of an escaped felon, one with a conviction for drug trafficking and a long history of gang involvement in the D.C. area. There is no whiff of a motive, no clue as to how the FBI decided Quinn was their man, and only a passing reference to a ballistics report. Most important, the article states, “After waiving his Miranda rights, the suspect voluntarily underwent a lengthy interrogation and provided the FBI with a videotaped confession.”
I met Quinn Rucker two years ago, not long after he arrived at Frostburg. After he settled in, he made his way to the library and asked me to review his sentencing order. In prison, you learn to make friends slowly, with great caution, because few people are genuine. Naturally, the place is swarming with crooks, cons, and scam artists, and everyone is looking out for his own skin. With Quinn, though, things were different. He was instantly likeable, and I’m not sure I’ve met another person with as much charisma and sincerity. Then the mood would swing, and he would withdraw into himself and suffer through his “dark days,” as he called them. He could be cranky, rude, and harsh, and the potential for violence was not far from the surface. He would eat alone and speak to no one. Two days later, he would be telling jokes over breakfast and challenging the serious players to a game of poker. He could be loud and cocky, then quiet and vulnerable. As I’ve said, there is no violence at Frostburg. The nearest thing to a fight I’ve seen was an episode in which a hillbilly we called Skunk challenged Quinn to a fistfight to settle a gambling dispute. Skunk was at least four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Quinn, but the fight never happened. Quinn backed down and was humiliated. Two days later, he showed me a homemade knife, a “shank,” that he’d bought on the black market. He planned to use it to slice Skunk’s throat.
I talked him out of the killing, though I wasn’t convinced he was serious. I spent a lot of time with Quinn and we became friends. He was convinced I could work some legal magic, spring us both from prison, and we would become partners of some sort. He was tired of the family business and wanted to go straight. There was a pot of gold waiting out there, and Judge Fawcett was sitting on it.
Henry Bannister is waiting in the visitors’ room, sitting sadly in a folding chair while a young mother and her three children squabble nearby. The room will fill up as the morning goes on, and Henry prefers to get his visits over with earlier rather than later. The rules allow a family member to sit and chat with an inmate from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. each Saturday and Sunday, but one hour is enough for Henry. And for me as well.
If things go as planned, and I have little reason to believe they will, this could be my last visit with my father. I may not see him again for years, if ever, but I can’t discuss this. I take the brown bag of cookies from Aunt Racine and nibble on one. We talk about my brother, Marcus, and his rotten children and my sister, Ruby, and her perfect ones.
Winchester averages one murder per year, and the quota was filled last week when a husband arrived home early from work and saw a strange truck parked in his driveway. He sneaked into his house and caught his wife with one of his acquaintances, both enthusiastically violating their marriage vows. The husband had picked up his shotgun, and when the tomcat saw it, he attempted to jump through an unopened bedroom window, naked. He didn’t make it, and gunfire followed.
Henry thinks the guy might get off and relishes telling the story. It seems the entire town is split between guilt and justifiable homicide. I can almost hear the relentless gossip in the Old Town coffee shops I once visited. He dwells on this story for a long time, probably because we do not want to cover family issues.
But cover them we must. He changes subjects and says, “Looks like that little white girl is thinking about an abortion. Maybe I won’t be a great-grandfather after all.”
