The Racketeer

by John Grisham

  through once or twice, but that’s all.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Delocke opened a file, scanned a sheet of paper, and asked, “Who is Jackie Todd?”

  Quinn’s eyes closed as his mouth fell open slightly. A soft guttural sound, one from deep inside, came out, as if he’d been struck somewhere below the belt. His shoulders dropped. If he’d been white, he would have turned pale. “Don’t know,” he finally said. “Never met him.”

  Delocke continued: “Really? Well, it looks like Mr. Jackie R. Todd was arrested on Tuesday night, February 8, at a bar in Roanoke. Public drunk, assault. The police report says he got in a fight with some other drunks and spent the night in jail. Next morning, he posted a cash bond of $800 and walked out.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Is that so?” Delocke slid across a sheet of paper, and Quinn slowly picked it up. It was a mug shot, clearly one of himself.

  “Not much doubt about it, Quinn, right?”

  Quinn laid down the sheet of paper and said, “Okay, okay. So I had an alias. What was I supposed to do? Play hide-and-seek with my real name?”

  “Of course not, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “But you lied to us, didn’t you?”

  “You’re not the first cops I’ve lied to.”

  “Lying to the FBI can get you five years.”

  “Okay, I fibbed a little.”

  “No surprise there, but now we can’t believe anything. I guess we’ll have to start over.”

  Delocke said, “On February 9, one Jackie Todd walked into a used-car lot in Roanoke and paid $24,000 cash for a 2008 Hummer H3. This ring a bell, Quinn?”

  “No. Wasn’t me.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Delocke slid across a copy of the bill of sale. “And you’ve never seen this before, have you?”

  Quinn looked at it and said, “No.”

  Pankovits snapped, “Come on, Quinn. We’re not half as stupid as you think we are. You were in Roanoke on February 8, went to the bar, got in a fight, went to jail, bonded out the next morning, went back to your motel room at the Safe Lodge, back to the room you paid cash for, got some more cash and bought yourself a Hummer.”

  “Where’s the crime in paying cash for a vehicle?”

  “None whatsoever,” Pankovits said. “But you weren’t supposed to have that much cash at that point.”

  “Maybe I was wrong with some of the dates and some of the cash payments. I can’t remember everything.”

  “Do you remember where you bought the guns?” Delocke asked.

  “What guns?”

  “The Smith amp; Wesson.38 we found in your trailer and the Glock 9-millimeter we found in your storage unit, about two hours ago.”

  “Stolen guns,” Pankovits added helpfully. “More federal offenses.”

  Quinn slowly locked his hands behind his head and stared at his knees. A minute passed, then another. Without blinking and without moving a muscle, the two agents stared at Quinn. The room was silent, still, tense. Finally, Pankovits shuffled some papers and raised one. He said, “The preliminary inventory shows a wallet with $512 cash, a fake driver’s license from North Carolina, two prepaid Visa cards, a prepaid cell phone, the aforementioned Smith amp; Wesson.38, a bill of sale and a title for the Hummer, a lease agreement for the mini-storage unit, an insurance certificate for the vehicle, a box of bullets for the.38, and a few other items, all taken from the mobile home you were renting for $400 a month. From the mini-storage unit, we have inventoried some clothing, the Glock 9-millimeter, a pair of combat boots, some other items, and, most important, a metal box with $41,000 in it, cash, all in $100 bills.”

  Quinn slowly folded his arms across his chest and stared at Delocke, who said, “We have all night, Quinn. How about an explanation?”

  “I guess the mule was busier than I remember. There were a lot of trips to Miami and back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about all the trips?”

  “Like I said, I can’t remember everything. When you’re on the run like that, you tend to forget things.”

  “Do you remember using either of the guns for anything, Quinn?” Delocke asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you use the guns, or do you just not remember using the guns?”

  “I did not use the guns.”

  Pankovits found another sheet of paper and studied it gravely. “You sure about that, Quinn? This is a preliminary ballistics report.”

  Quinn slowly pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He stretched and walked a few steps to a corner. “Maybe I need a lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 14

  There was no ballistics report. The Smith amp; Wesson.38 was at the FBI crime laboratory at Quantico and would be analyzed as soon as the technicians arrived for work in about five hours. The sheet of paper Pankovits held like a weapon was a copy of some useless memo.

  He and Delocke had an entire repertoire of dirty tricks, all approved by the U.S. Supreme Court. Using them would depend on how far Quinn allowed things to go. The immediate problem was the “lawyer” comment. If Quinn had said, clearly and unequivocally, “I want a lawyer!” or “I’m not answering any more questions until I have a lawyer!” or something along those lines, the interrogation would have ended immediately. But he hedged and used the word “maybe.”

  Timing was crucial here. To divert attention away from the issue of a lawyer, the agents quickly changed the scenery. Delocke stood and said, “I need to take a leak.”

  Pankovits said, “And I need more coffee. How about you, Quinn?”

  “No.”

  Delocke slammed the door as he left. Pankovits stood and stretched his back. It was almost 3:00 a.m.

  Quinn had two brothers and two sisters, ages twenty-seven to forty-two, all at one point or another involved in the family’s drug-trafficking syndicate. One sister had eased out of the actual smuggling and selling but was still involved in various laundering operations. The other had left the business, moved away, and tried to avoid the family altogether. The youngest of the siblings was Dee Ray Rucker, a quiet young man who studied finance at Georgetown and knew how to move money around. He had one gun charge but nothing significant. Dee Ray really didn’t have the stomach for the fear and violence of the street life and tried to stay away from it. He lived with his girlfriend in a modest condo near Union Station, and it was there that the FBI found him shortly after midnight: in bed, unburdened by outstanding warrants or ongoing criminal investigations, oblivious to what was happening to his dear brother Quinn, carefree, and sleeping soundly. He was taken into custody without resistance but with an enormous amount of bitching. The squad of agents who snatched him offered little explanation. At the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue, he was hustled into a room where he was placed in a chair and surrounded by agents, all wearing navy parkas with “FBI” in bright yellow. The scene was photographed from several angles. After an hour of sitting handcuffed and being told nothing, he was removed from the room, walked back to the van, and driven home. He was deposited at the curb without another word.

  His girlfriend fetched him some pills and he eventually settled down. He would call his lawyer in the morning and raise hell, but the entire episode would soon be forgotten.

  In the drug trade, you don’t expect happy endings.

  When Delocke returned from the restroom, he held the door open for a moment. A slender, attractive secretary of some variety entered with a tray of drinks and cookies, which she set on the edge of the table. She smiled at Quinn, who was still standing in the corner, too confused to acknowledge her. After she left, Pankovits popped a can of Red Bull and poured it over ice. “You need a Red Bull, Quinn?”

  “No.” He served them all night at the bar, Red Bull and vodka, but had never cared for the taste. The break in the action gave him a moment to catch his breath and try to organize his thoughts. Should he continue, or should he remain silent and insist on a lawyer? His instincts were for the la
tter, but he was extremely curious about how much the FBI knew. He was reeling from what they had already discovered, but how far could they go?

  Delocke fixed himself a Red Bull too, over ice, and munched on a cookie. “Have a seat, Quinn,” he said, waving him back to the table. Quinn took a few steps and sat down. Pankovits was already taking notes. “Your older brother, I believe they call him Tall Man, is he still in the D.C. area?”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Just filling in some gaps here, Quinn. That’s all. I like to have all the facts, or as many as possible. Have you seen much of Tall Man in the past three months?”

  “No comment.”

  “Okay. Your younger brother, Dee Ray, is he still in the D.C. area?”

  “I don’t know where Dee Ray is.”

  “Have you seen much of Dee Ray in the past three months?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did Dee Ray go to Roanoke with you when you got arrested?”

  “No comment.”

  “Was anyone with you when you got arrested in Roanoke?”

  “I was alone.”

  Delocke exhaled in frustration. Pankovits sighed as if this were just another lie and they knew it.

  “I swear I was alone,” Quinn said.

  “What were you doing in Roanoke?” Delocke asked.

  “Business.”

  “Trafficking?”

  “That’s our business. Roanoke is part of our territory. We had a situation there and I had to take care of it.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “No comment.”

  Pankovits took a long pull of his Red Bull and said, “You know, Quinn, the problem we have right now is that we can’t believe a word you’re saying. You lie. We know you lie. You even admit you lie. We ask a question, you give us a lie.”

  “We’re getting nowhere, Quinn,” Delocke chimed in. “What were you doing in Roanoke?”

  Quinn reached forward and took an Oreo. He pulled off the top, licked the creme, stared at Delocke, and finally said, “We had a mule down there who we suspected of being an informant. We lost two shipments under strange circumstances, and we figured things out. I went to see the mule.”

  “To kill him?”

  “No, we don’t operate that way. I couldn’t find him. He apparently got word and took off. I went to a bar, drank too much, got in a fight, had a bad night. The next day, a friend told me about a good deal on a Hummer, so I went to see it.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  “No comment.”

  “You’re lying,” Delocke said. “You’re lying and we know you’re lying. You’re not even a good liar, Quinn, you know that?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why did you title the Hummer in North Carolina?” Pankovits asked.

  “Because I was on the run, remember? I was an escapee, trying not to leave a trail. Get it, fellas? Fake ID. Fake address. Fake everything.”

  “Who is Jakeel Staley?” Delocke asked.

  Quinn hesitated for a second, tried to shake it off, and answered nonchalantly, “My nephew.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Federal pen somewhere. I’m sure you guys know the answer.”

  “Alabama, serving eighteen years,” Pankovits said. “Jakeel got busted near Roanoke with a van full of cocaine, right?”

  “I’m sure you have the file.”

  “Did you try to help Jakeel?”

  “When?”

  Both agents overreacted with feigned frustration. Both took a sip of Red Bull. Delocke reached for another Oreo. There were a dozen left on the platter, and there was a pot full of coffee. From the looks of things, they planned to be there all night.

  Pankovits said, “Come on, Quinn, stop playing games. We’ve established that Jakeel was busted in Roanoke, lots of coke, lots of years ahead in the pen, and the question is whether or not you tried to help the boy.”

  “Sure. He’s part of the family, part of the business, and he got busted in the course of his employment. The family always steps forward.”

  “Did you hire the lawyer?”

  “I did.”

  “How much did you pay the lawyer?”

  Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t really remember. It was a sackful of cash.”

  “You paid the lawyer in cash?”

  “That’s what I just said. Nothing wrong with cash, last time I checked. We don’t use bank accounts and credit cards and things the Feds can follow. Just cash.”

  “Who gave you the cash to hire the lawyer?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you get the cash from Dee Ray?”

  “No comment.”

  Pankovits slowly reached for a thin file and removed a sheet of paper. “Well, Dee Ray says he gave you all the cash you would need in Roanoke.”

  Quinn shook his head and offered a nasty smile that said, “Bullshit.”

  Pankovits slid across an eight-by-ten color enlargement of a photograph of Dee Ray surrounded by FBI agents, with his hands cuffed, his mouth open, and his face angry. Delocke explained, “We picked up Dee Ray in D.C. about an hour after we brought you in. He likes to talk, you know. In fact, he talks a lot more than you do.”

  Quinn stared at the photo and was speechless.

  The Freezer. Four in the morning. Victor Westlake stood, again, and walked around the room. Movement was needed to fight off sleep. The other four agents were still awake, their systems pumped with over-the-counter amphetamines, Red Bull, and coffee. “Damn, these guys are slow,” one of them said.

  “They’re methodical,” another replied. “They’re wearing him down. The fact that he’s still talking after seven hours is incredible.”

  “He doesn’t want to go to the county jail.”

  “Can’t blame him there.”

  “I think he’s still curious. Cat and mouse. How much do we really know?”

  “They’re not going to trick him. He’s too smart.”

  “They know what they’re doing,” Westlake said. He sat down and poured another cup of coffee.

  In Norfolk, Pankovits poured a cup of coffee and asked, “Who drove you to Roanoke?”

  “Nobody. I drove myself.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’re lying, Quinn. Someone drove you to Roanoke the week before February 7. There were two of you. We have witnesses.”

  “Then your witnesses are lying. You’re lying. Everybody’s lying.”

  “You bought the Hummer on February 9, paid cash, and there was no trade-in. How did you get to the used-car lot that day when you bought the Hummer? Who took you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “So you don’t remember who took you?”

  “I don’t remember anything. I was hungover and still about half drunk.”

  “Come on, Quinn,” Delocke said. “These lies are getting ridiculous. What are you hiding? If you’re not hiding something, then you wouldn’t be lying so much.”

  “What, exactly, do you want to know?” Quinn asked, hands in the air.

  “Where did you get all that cash, Quinn?”

  “I’m a drug dealer. I’ve been a drug dealer most of my life. I’ve spent time in prison because I’m a drug dealer. We burn cash. We eat cash. Don’t you understand this?”

  Pankovits was shaking his head. “But, Quinn, according to your story, you were not working much for the family after your escape. They were afraid of you, right? Am I right about this?” he asked, looking at Delocke, who quickly confirmed that, yes, his partner was right about this.

  Delocke said, “The family shunned you, so you began making runs down south and back. You say you earned about $46,000, which we now know is a lie, because you spent $24,000 on the Hummer and we found $41,000 in your storage unit.”

  Pankovits said, “You came across some cash, Quinn. What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  �
�Then why are you lying?”

  “Everybody’s lying. I thought we all agreed on that.”

  Delocke tapped the table and said, “Let’s go back a few years, Quinn. Your nephew Jakeel Staley is in jail, here in Roanoke, waiting on a trial. You paid his lawyer some amount in cash for legal services, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Was there more cash? A little extra to help grease the system? Maybe a bribe so the court would go easy on the kid? Anything like that, Quinn?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Come on, Quinn.”

  “I paid the lawyer in cash. I assumed he kept the money for his fee. That’s all I know.”

  “Who was the judge?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Does Judge Fawcett ring a bell?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Did you ever go to court with Jakeel?”

  “I was there when he was sentenced to eighteen years.”

  “Were you surprised when he got eighteen years?”

  “Yes, matter of fact I was.”

  “He was supposed to get a lot less, wasn’t he?”

  “According to his lawyer, yes.”

  “And you were in court so you could get a good look at Judge Fawcett, right?”