by John Grisham
unbreakable glass, and thick dead bolts. So they simply removed an entire window in the basement. Inside, they could not locate the safe but did manage to identify Ray. Riffling through some papers at a worktable, they realized their neighbor was a big-shot federal judge over in Roanoke. There was even a newspaper article about an important trial involving uranium mining in Virginia, with the Honorable Raymond Fawcett presiding.
They drove to Roanoke, found the federal courthouse, and watched two hours of testimony. Nattie wore glasses and a baseball cap in case the judge might get bored and look around the courtroom. There were plenty of spectators and Ray never looked up. Convinced they were onto something, the brothers returned to the cabin, reentered through the basement window, and again searched for the safe. It had to be in the small basement because that was where Nattie and the judge had left it. One wall was lined with shelves and covered with thick law books, and the brothers became convinced there must be a hidden space behind the wall. They carefully removed each book, looked behind it, then replaced it. It took some time, but they eventually found a switch that opened a trapdoor. Once it swung open, the safe was just sitting there, at floor level, waiting to be opened. But that proved to be impossible because there was a digital keypad that, of course, required a coded entry. They toyed with it for a day or two, with no luck. They spent a lot of time in the cabin but were always careful about not leaving a trail. One Friday, Gene drove to Roanoke, about an hour away, went to the courtroom, checked on the judge, then hung around long enough for him to adjourn for the weekend, or until 9:00 a.m. Monday. Gene followed him to his apartment and watched him load his truck with what appeared to be a brown paper sack of groceries, a cooler, several bottles of wine, a gym bag, two bulky briefcases and a stack of books. Ray left his apartment, alone, and drove west. Gene called Nattie and said Ray was on his way. Nattie tidied up the cabin, replaced the basement window, swept away any boot prints in the dirt by the porch, and climbed a tree fifty yards away. Sure enough, an hour later Judge Fawcett arrived at the cabin, unloaded his truck, and promptly took a nap in a hammock on the porch as Nattie and Gene watched from the thick forest surrounding the A-frame. The following day, a Saturday, Judge Fawcett dragged his canoe to the water’s edge, loaded two fishing rods and some bottled water, fired up a short, dark cigar, and shoved off across Lake Higgins. Nattie watched him with binoculars while Gene removed the window and hurried inside the cabin. The trapdoor was open, the safe was visible, but it was closed and locked. Out of luck again, Gene quickly left the basement, reinstalled the window, and retreated to the woods.
The boys were determined to find out what was in the safe, but they were also patient. Ray had no idea he was being watched, and if he was adding to his treasure each week, then there was no hurry. For the next two Fridays, Gene watched the exterior of the courthouse in Roanoke, but the judge worked late. A federal holiday was approaching, and they guessed the judge might get away for a long weekend. According to the newspaper articles, the bench trial was arduous and hotly contentious, with a lot of pressure on Judge Fawcett. They guessed correctly. At 2:00 p.m. Friday, the proceedings were adjourned until 9:00 a.m. the following Tuesday. Gene watched as Ray loaded up and headed for the lake, alone.
The cabin was too deep in the mountains for electricity or gas; thus, it had no air-conditioning or heating, except for a large fireplace. Food and beverages were kept on ice in the cooler Ray hauled back and forth. When he needed lights to read by at night, he cranked up a small gas generator outside the basement, and its low, muffled sound echoed through the valley. Usually, though, the judge was asleep by 9:00 p.m.
The basement was one room and one closet, a narrow space with small double doors. Inside the closet, Ray stored stuff that appeared to be forgotten-hunting clothes, boots, and a pile of old quilts and blankets. Gene cooked up the plan of hiding Nattie in there, for hours, with the idea that through the tiniest of cracks in one of the doors, he would be able to watch as the judge opened the safe and stashed away whatever it was he was hiding. Nattie, at five feet seven and 130 pounds, had a long history of hiding in cracks and crevices, though he was initially reluctant to spend the night in the closet. The plan was revised yet again.
On the Friday before Columbus Day, Judge Fawcett arrived at his cabin around 6:00 p.m. and took his time unloading the truck. Nattie was curled up in the basement closet, virtually invisible amid the hunting clothes, blankets, and quilts. He had a pistol in his pocket in the event things went wrong. Gene was watching from the trees, also with a gun. They were nervous as hell, but also wildly excited. As Ray went about his business of settling in, he lit a cigar and the entire cabin soon smelled of rich tobacco smoke. He took his time, talked to himself, hummed the same song over and over, and eventually hauled a bulky briefcase to the basement. Nattie was hardly breathing as he watched the judge remove a law book from a shelf, flip the hidden switch, and pull the trapdoor open. He punched in the code on the keypad and opened the safe. It was filled with cigar boxes. He backed away and removed another cigar box from the briefcase. He paused for a second, lifted the lid, and took out a beautiful little gold ingot. He admired it, caressed it, then returned it to the box, which he then placed carefully in the safe. Another cigar box followed, then he quickly closed the safe, programmed the code, and closed the trapdoor.
Nattie’s heart was pounding so violently he worried about shaking the entire closet, but he urged himself to stay calm. As he was leaving, the judge noticed the crack in the closet door and shoved it tight.
Around 7:00 p.m., he lit another cigar, poured a glass of white wine, and sat in a rocker on the porch to watch the sun fade over the mountains. After dark, he turned on the generator and puttered around the cabin until ten, when he turned it off and went to bed. As the cabin became still and quiet, Gene appeared from the woods and banged on the door. Who is it? Ray demanded angrily from inside. Gene said he was looking for his dog. Ray opened the door and they spoke through the screen. Gene explained he had a cabin about a mile away, on the other side of the lake, and his beloved dog, Yank, had disappeared. Ray was not the least bit friendly and said he had seen no dogs in the vicinity. Gene thanked him and left. When Nattie heard the banging and the conversation upstairs, he quietly sneaked out of the closet and left through a basement door. He was unable to relock the dead bolt, and the boys figured the judge would scratch his head and remain confused as to why the door wasn’t properly locked. By then, they would be lost in the woods. The judge would search and search but would find no signs of entry, nothing missing, and would eventually forget about it.
Naturally, the brothers were stunned at what they had learned, and they began making plans to rob the safe. It would require an altercation with the judge, and probably violence, but they were determined to follow through. Two weekends passed and the judge stayed in Roanoke. Then three.
While watching the cabin, and the judge, Gene and Nattie had returned to their meth business because they were broke. Before they could get the gold, they were busted by DEA agents. Gene was killed, and Nattie went away to prison.
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.”
CHAPTER 43
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.
It’s almost midnight when I enter central D.C. I take a brief detour and drive along First Street, passing in front of the Supreme Court Building and wondering what will be the final outcome of the momentous case of Armanna Mines v. the Commonwealth of Virginia. One of the lawyers, or perhaps two or three of those involved in the case, once defiled the chambers of a federal judge with their filthy bribes. Said bribes are now in the trunk of my car. What a journey. I’m almost tempted to park at the curb, take out a mini-bar, and toss it through one of the massive windows.
However, better judgment prevails. I circle Union Station, follow the GPS to I Street, then to the corner of Fifth. By the time I park in front of the building, Mr. Quinn Rucker is bou
nding down the steps with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. Our embrace is long and emotional. “What took so long?” he asks.
“Got here as fast as I could,” I reply.
“I knew you would come, bro. I never doubted you.”
“There were doubts, lots of them.”
We’re both stunned at the fact that we’ve pulled it off, and at that moment our success is overwhelming. We embrace again, and each of us admires how thin the other looks. I comment that I’m looking forward to eating again. Quinn says he’s tired of playing the lunatic. “I’m sure it comes natural,” I say. He grabs my shoulders, stares at my new face, and says, “You’re almost cute now.”
“I’ll give you the doctor’s name. You could use some work.”
I’ve never had a closer friend than Quinn Rucker, and the hours we spent at Frostburg hatching our scheme now seem like an ancient dream. Back then, we believed in it because there was nothing else to hope for, but deep down we never seriously thought it would work. Arm in arm, we climb the steps and enter the condo. I hug and kiss Vanessa, then reintroduce myself to Dee Ray. I met him briefly years ago in the visitors’ room at Frostburg when he came to see his brother, but I’m not sure I would recognize him walking down a street. It doesn’t matter; we are now blood kin, our bonds solidified by trust and gold.
The first bottle of champagne is poured into four Waterford flutes-Dee Ray has expensive tastes-and we chug it. Dee Ray and Quinn stick guns in their pockets, and we quickly unload my car. The party that follows would seem implausible even in a fantasy film.
With champagne flowing, the gold bars are stacked ten deep in the center of the den floor, all 524 of them, and we sit on cushions around the treasure. It’s impossible not to gawk and no one tries to suppress the laughter. Since I’m the lawyer and the unofficial leader, I commence the business portion of the meeting with some simple math. We have before us 524 little bricks; 5 were sold to a Syrian gold trader in Miami; and 41 are now resting safely in a bank vault on Antigua. The total taken from our dear pal Nathan is 570, worth roughly $8.5 million. Pursuant to our agreement, Dee Ray gets 57 of the glowing little ingots. His 10 percent was earned by fronting the cash Quinn was caught with; for paying Dusty’s legal fees; for supplying the four kilos of Nathan’s cocaine, along with the pistol and the chloral hydrate I used to knock him out. Dee Ray picked up Quinn when he walked away from Frostburg, and he monitored Nathan’s release from prison so we would know exactly when to start the project. He also paid the $20,000 deposit to the rehab center near Akron for Quinn’s phony cocaine problem.
Dee Ray is in charge of the yacht. As he’s getting drunker, he hands over an itemized list of his expenses, including the yacht, and rounds it all off at an even $300,000. We’re assuming a value of $1,500 an ounce, so we vote unanimously to award him another twenty bars. No one is in the mood to quibble, and when you’re staring at such a fortune it’s easy to be magnanimous.
At some unknown and unknowable point in the future, the remaining 488 bars will be equally divided among Quinn, Vanessa, and me. That’s not important now-the urgency is in getting the stuff out of this country. It will take a long time to slowly convert the gold to cash, but we’ll worry about that much later. For the moment, we are content to pass the hours drinking, laughing, and taking turns telling our version of the events. When Vanessa replays the moment in Nathan’s house when she stripped naked and confronted his buddies at the front door, we laugh until it’s painful. When Quinn recounts the meeting with Stanley Mumphrey in which he blurted out the fact that he knew Max Baldwin had left witness protection and left Florida, he imitates Mumphrey’s wild-eyed reaction to this startling news. When I describe my second meeting with Hassan and trying to count 122 stacks of $100 bills in a busy coffee shop, they think I’m lying.
The stories continue until 3:00 a.m., when we’re too drunk to go on. Dee Ray covers the gold with a quilt and I volunteer to sleep on the sofa.
CHAPTER 44
We slowly come to life hours later. The hangovers and fatigue are offset by the excitement of the task at hand. For a young man who has lived on the fringes of an operation adept at smuggling illegal substances into the country, the challenge of smuggling our gold out is light lifting for Dee Ray. He explains that we are now avid scuba divers, and he has purchased an astonishing collection of gear, all of it stored in heavy, official U.S. Divers brand nylon duffel bags, each with a solid zipper and a small padlock. We hustle around the condo removing masks, snorkels, fins, regulators, tanks, weight belts, buoyancy compensators, gauges, dry suits, even spearguns, none of which has ever been used. It will be on eBay within a month. The gear is replaced by an assortment of smaller U.S. Divers snorkel backpacks and dry bags, all filled with gold mini-bars. The weight of each bag is tested and retested by the men to see how much can be carried. The bags are bulky and heavy, but then they would be if filled with scuba gear. In addition, Dee Ray has accumulated a variety of luggage, the sturdiest cases he could, and all on rollers. We place the gold in shoes, shaving kits, makeup bags, even two small tackle boxes for deep-sea fishing. When we add a few items of clothing for the trip, our bags and gear seem heavy enough to sink a fine boat. The weight is important because we do not want to raise suspicion. Of much greater significance, though, is the fact that all 524 bars are now packed, under lock and key, and safe, or so we pray.
Before we leave, I take a look around the condo. It is littered with diving gear and packing debris. On the kitchen table, I see empty Lavo cigar boxes and have a twinge of nostalgia. They served us well.
At ten, a large van arrives and we load the scuba duffels and the luggage inside. There’s barely enough room for the four of us. Vanessa sits in my lap. Fifteen minutes later we pull in to a parking lot at the Washington Marina. Its piers are lined with slips and hundreds of boats of all shapes rock gently on the water. The larger ones are at the far end. Dee Ray points in that direction and tells the driver where to go.
The yacht is a sleek, beautiful vessel, a hundred feet long, three decks high, brilliant white, and called Rumrunner, which seems vaguely appropriate. It sleeps eight comfortably and has a crew of ten. A month earlier, Dee Ray chartered it for a quick cruise to Bermuda, so he knows the captain and the crew. He calls them by name as we spill out and start grabbing bags. Two porters help with the scuba duffels and strain under the weight. But then, they’ve dealt with serious divers before. Passports are collected by the steward and taken to the bridge. Quinn’s is fake, and we’re holding our breath.
It takes an hour to inspect our quarters, get ourselves situated, and settle in for the ride. Dee Ray explains to the deckhands that we want the scuba gear in our cabins because we are fanatical about our equipment. They schlep it up from storage and haul it to our rooms. When the engines come to life, we change into shorts and congregate on the lower deck. The steward brings the first bottle of champagne and a tray of shrimp. We motor slowly through the harbor and into the Potomac. From passing boats, we get some looks. Perhaps it’s unusual to see a yacht loaded with African-Americans. This is a white man’s game, right?
The steward returns with all four passports and wants to chat. I explain that I have just bought a place in Antigua, and we’re going down for a party. He eventually asks what I do for a living (in other words, Where is this money coming from?), and I tell him I’m a filmmaker. When he’s gone we toast my favorite actor-Nathan Cooley. Soon we’re in the Atlantic and the coast fades away.
Our cabin is large by boat standards, which isn’t very big at all. With four pieces of luggage and two scuba duffels we have trouble moving about. The bed, though, works fine. Vanessa and I have a quickie, then sleep for two hours.
Three days later we ease into Jolly Harbour, on the west end of Antigua. Sailing is serious business on the island and the bay is crowded with moored boats of all sizes. We ease past them, barely inching along, leaving almost no wake as we take in the views of the mountains on all sides. The big yachts are docked to
gether at one of the piers, and our captain slowly maneuvers the Rumrunner into a slip between two other fine ships, one about our size and the other much larger. In this fleeting moment of living like the rich, we find it impossible not to compare the lengths of the yachts. We stare at the larger one and think, Who owns it? What does he do? Where is he from? And so on. Our crew scurries around to secure the boat, and after the engines die the captain collects passports again and steps onto the pier. He walks about a hundred feet
