by John Grisham
The police found Nathan’s truck at the general aviation area of the Roanoke Regional Airport late Tuesday morning. As expected, his employees at the bar became concerned Monday when he didn’t show, and by late afternoon they were making calls. They finally contacted the police, who eventually scoured the airport. Nathan had boasted of flying to Miami on a private jet, so the search was not difficult, at least for his truck. Finding it did not automatically indicate foul play, and the police were in no hurry to start a manhunt. A quick background check on the name revealed the criminal record, and this did nothing to create sympathy. There was no family screaming for the lost loved one.
A computer search and a few phone calls revealed that Nathan had purchased the brand-new Chevy Silverado two months earlier from a dealer in Lexington, Virginia, an hour north of Roanoke on Interstate 81. The selling price was $41,000, and Nathan had paid in cash. Not the kind of cash often referred to when one writes a check, but hard cash. An impressive stack of $100 bills.
Unknown to the car dealer, or the police, or anyone else for that matter, Nathan had found himself a gold trader.
I finally find one myself.
After two trips into the vault of the Palmetto Trust in south-central Miami, I still have in my possession, in the trunk of my rented Impala, exactly forty-one of the precious little mini-bars, value of about $600,000. I need to convert some of them to cash, and to do so I am forced to enter the shady world of gold trading, where rules are pliant and adjusted on the fly and all characters have shifty eyes and speak in double-talk.
The first two dealers, lifted from the Yellow Pages, suspect I’m an agent of some variety and promptly hang up. The third one, a gentleman with an accent, which I’m quickly learning is not unusual in the trade, wants to know how I came to possess a ten-ounce bar of seemingly pure gold. “It’s a long story,” I say, then hang up. Number four is a small fry who pawns appliances out front and buys jewelry in the back. Number five shows some potential but, of course, will have to see what I’ve got. I explain that I do not want to walk into his store because I do not wish to be caught on video. He pauses and I suspect he’s thinking about getting robbed of his cash at gunpoint. We eventually agree to meet at an ice cream shop two doors down from his store, in a shopping center, in a good part of town. He’ll be wearing a black Marlins cap.
Thirty minutes later I’m sitting in front of a double pistachio gelato. Hassan, a large gray-bearded Syrian, is across from me and working on a triple chocolate fudge. Twenty feet away is another swarthy gentleman who’s reading a newspaper, eating frozen yogurt, and probably ready to shoot me if I show the slightest sign of causing trouble.
After we try and fail at small talk, I slide over a crumpled envelope. Inside is a single gold bar. Hassan glances around, but the only customers are young moms and their five-year-olds, along with the other Syrian. He takes the mini-bar into his thick paw, squeezes it, smiles, taps it slightly on the corner of the table, and mumbles, “Wow.” This he manages without the slightest hint of an accent.
I am amazed at how soothing that simple expression is. I have never thought about the gold being fake, but to have it legitimized by a pro is suddenly refreshing. “You like, huh?” I say stupidly, just trying to get something out.
“Very nice,” he says, easing the bar into the envelope. I reach over and take it. He asks, “How many?”
“Let’s say five bars, fifty ounces. Gold closed yesterday at $1,520 an ounce, so-”
“I know the price of gold,” he interrupts.
“Of course you do. Do you want to buy five bars?”
A guy like this never says yes or no. Instead, he mumbles, talks in circles, hedges, and bluffs. He says, “It is possible, and it certainly depends on the price.”
“What can you offer?” I ask, but not too eagerly. There are other gold dealers left in the Yellow Pages, though I’m running out of time and weary of the cold-calling.
“Well, that depends, Mr. Baldwin, on several things. One must assume in a situation like this that the gold is of, shall we say, the black-market variety. I don’t know where you got it, and don’t want to know, but there is a reasonable chance it was, shall we say, extracted from its previous owner.”
“Does it really matter where-”
“Are you the registered owner of this gold, Mr. Baldwin?” he asks sharply.
I glance around. “No.”
“Of course not. Therefore, the black-market discount is 20 percent.” This guy doesn’t need a calculator. “I’ll pay $1,220 an ounce,” he says softly but firmly as he leans forward. His beard partially covers his lips, but his accented words are clear.
“For five bars?” I ask. “Fifty ounces?”
“Assuming the other four are of the same quality.”
“They are identical.”
“And you have no registration, records, paperwork, nothing, correct, Mr. Baldwin?”
“That’s right, and I want no records now. A simple deal, gold for cash, no receipts, no paperwork, no videos, nothing. I came and went and vanished in the night.”
Hassan smiles and offers his right hand. We shake, the deal is done, and we agree to meet at nine the following morning at a deli across the street, one with booths where we can do our counting in private. I leave the ice cream parlor as if I’ve committed a crime and repeat to myself what should be obvious; to wit, it is not against the law to buy and sell gold, at discounted prices or at inflated ones. This is not crack we’re peddling on the street, nor is it inside information from a boardroom. It’s a perfectly legitimate transaction, right?
Anyone watching Hassan and me would swear they were observing two crooks negotiating a crooked deal. Who could blame them? At this point, I am beyond caring.
I’m taking risks, but I have no choice. Hassan is a risk, but I need the cash. Getting the gold out of the country will require risks, but leaving it here could mean losing it.
I spend the next two hours shopping at discount stores. I buy random items such as backgammon sets, small toolboxes, hardback books, and three cheap laptop computers. I haul my goods into a ground-level motel room south of Coral Gables and spend the rest of the night tinkering, packing, and sipping cold beer.
From the laptops, I remove the hard drives and the batteries, and manage to replace them with three of my little bricks. Inside each hardback, I stuff one mini-bar wrapped in newspaper and aluminum foil, then bind it tightly with duct tape. In the toolboxes, I leave the hammer and screwdrivers, but remove everything else. Four mini-bars fit nicely into each one. The backgammon sets hold two bars without feeling suspicious. Using supplies from FedEx, UPS, and DHL, I carefully package my goods as the hours pass and I’m lost in another world.
I call Vanessa twice and we replay our days. She’s back in Richmond, doing the same thing I’m doing. We’re both exhausted, physically and mentally, but we encourage each other to keep going. Now is not the time to slow down or get careless.
At midnight, I finish and admire my handiwork. On the credenza there are a dozen overnight packages, all sealed and properly air billed, efficient-looking, not the least bit suspicious, and together holding thirty-two mini-bars worth roughly $500,000. For international shipments, the paperwork is tedious and I am forced to fudge on the contents. The sender is Mr. M. Reed Baldwin of Skelter Films in Miami, and the recipient is the same guy at Sugar Cove Villas, Number 26, Willoughby Bay, Antigua. My plans are to be there to receive them. If they arrive at their destination without incident, Vanessa and I will probably try similar shipments in the near future. If something goes wrong, we’ll make new plans. Shipping like this is another risk; the packages might be searched and confiscated; the gold could be stolen somewhere along the way. However, I’m reasonably confident it will find its new home. I remind myself we’re not shipping banned substances here.
I’m too wired to sleep, and at 2:00 a.m. I turn on the lights and my laptop and fiddle with the e-mail. It is to Mr. Stanley Mumphrey, U.S. Attorney, Southern
District of Virginia, and Mr. Victor Westlake, FBI, Washington. The current draft reads:
Dear Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake:
I’m afraid I’ve made a grave mistake. Quinn Rucker did not kill Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary. Now that I’m out of prison, it has taken me several months to realize this, and to identify the real killer. Quinn’s confession is bogus, as you probably know by now, and you have zero physical evidence against him. His attorney, Dusty Shiver, now has in his possession clear proof of an airtight alibi that will clear Quinn, so prepare yourselves for the reality of dropping all charges against him. Sorry for any inconvenience.
It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible. I have a detailed plan of how to proceed, and only your total cooperation will lead to the apprehension and conviction of the killer. My plan begins with the promise of complete immunity for myself and others, and it ends with the precise result that you desire. Working together, we can finally resolve this matter and bring about justice.
I am out of the country and have no plans to return, ever.
Sincerely, Malcolm Bannister
CHAPTER 40
Typically, sleep is fleeting. In fact, it is so elusive and fitful I’m not sure I slept at all. There is so much to do that I find myself drinking bad coffee and staring at the television long before the sun rises. Finally, I shower, dress, load the overnight packages into my car, and hit the empty streets of Miami in search of breakfast. At nine, Hassan rumbles into the deli with a brown paper sack, as though he’s been to the grocer for a few items. We huddle in a booth, order coffee, and while we dodge the waitress, we do the counting. His job is far easier than mine; he caresses the five mini-bars before dropping them into the inside pockets of his wrinkled blazer. I poke into the brown bag and struggle to count 122 stacks of $100 bills, ten per stack. “It’s all there,” he says, watching out for the waitress. “A hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.”
When I’m satisfied, I close the bag and try to enjoy the coffee. Twenty minutes after he arrives, he leaves. I wait awhile, then head for the door, nervously expecting a SWAT team to assault me as I hustle to my car. I keep $22,000 for the trip, and stuff $50,000 into two remaining backgammon sets. At a FedEx shipping office, I wait in line with five overnight packages and watch intently as the customers in front of me go about their business. When it’s my turn, the clerk examines the air bills and nonchalantly asks, “What’s inside?”
“Household items, some books, nothing of real value, nothing to insure,” I respond, the words carefully rehearsed. “I have a place on Antigua. Just sprucing it up a bit.” She nods as if she’s really interested in my plans.
For standard business delivery, three days guaranteed, the bill comes to $310, and I pay with a prepaid credit card. As I leave the lobby, and leave the gold behind, I take a deep breath and hope for the best. Using the rental car’s GPS, I locate a UPS office and go through the same procedure. I return to Palmetto Trust and it takes an hour to get into my lockbox. I leave behind the rest of the cash and the four remaining mini-bars.
It takes a while to find the DHL shipping desk in the sprawl of Miami International, but I eventually negotiate my way there and drop off more packages. I finally part with my Impala at an Avis station and take a cab to the general aviation section of the airport, far away from the main terminal. There are blocks of private aircraft hangars, and charter companies, and flight schools, and my driver gets lost as we search in vain for an outfit called Maritime Aviation. It needs a larger sign because the one currently in use can hardly be seen from the nearest street, and I’m tempted to bark this at the clerk when I walk in the door. I manage to bite my tongue and relax.
There is no scanner to examine me or my luggage, and I assume private aircraft terminals are not equipped with these machines. I expect to be scanned at some level upon my arrival in Antigua, so I’m playing it safe. I have about $30,000 in cash, with most of it hidden in my luggage, and if they dig through it and get excited, I’ll play dumb and pay the fine. I was tempted to try to smuggle in a gold bar or two, to see if it can be done, but the risk is greater than the reward.
At 1:30, the pilots say it’s time to board, and we crawl inside a Learjet 35, a small jet about half the size of the Challenger Nathan and I enjoyed briefly during our recent trip to Jamaica. The 35 can perhaps seat six people, but full-sized men would be shoulder to shoulder. Instead of a restroom, there is an emergency potty under a seat. It’s cramped, to say the least, but who cares? It’s far cheaper than a big plane, but just as fast. I’m the only passenger, and I’m in a hurry.
Max Baldwin on board here, with proper documentation. Malcolm Bannister has been retired, for the final time. I’m sure Customs will eventually notify some spook within the FBI, and after some puzzlement he’ll report to his boss. They’ll rub their chins and wonder what Baldwin is doing, what’s his thing with private jets, why is he spending all his money? A lot of questions, but the big one is still, What the hell is he doing?
They will have no clue unless I tell them.
As we taxi away from the terminal, I quickly review the e-mail to Mumphrey and Westlake, then I press Send.
It is July 28. Four months ago I left Frostburg, and two months ago I left Fort Carson with a new face and name. As I try to recall these past few weeks and put them into perspective, I begin to nod off. When we reach our altitude of forty thousand feet, I fall asleep.
Two hours later I am awakened by turbulence and look through the window. We are streaking over a summer thunderstorm and the small jet is getting bounced around. One of the pilots turns around and gives me a thumbs-up-everything’s okay. If you say so, pal. Minutes later the sky is calm again, the storm is behind us, and I gaze down at the beautiful waters of the Caribbean. According to the NavScreen on the bulkhead in front of me, we are about to pass over St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands.
There are so many beautiful islands down there, and so much variety. When I was in prison, I kept hidden in the library a Fodor’s Guide to the Caribbean, a thick reference book with two dozen color photos, maps, lists of things to do, and brief histories of all the islands. I dreamed that I would one day be loose in the Caribbean, alone with Vanessa, just the two of us on a small sailboat, drifting from island to island in complete and unrestrained freedom. I do not know how to sail and I’ve never owned a boat, but that was Malcolm. Today, Max is starting a new life at forty-three, and if he wants to buy a skiff, learn to sail, and spend the rest of his life drifting from beach to beach, who can stop him?
The plane jolts slightly as the engines cut back a notch. I watch the captain ease down on the throttles as we begin a long descent. There’s a small cooler by the door and I find a beer. We pass over Nevis and St. Kitts in the distance. Those two islands have attractive banking laws too, and I considered them briefly, back when I was at Frostburg and had plenty of time to dwell on my research. I considered the Cayman Islands but learned that they are now terribly overbuilt. The Bahamas are too close to Florida and filthy with U.S. agents. Puerto Rico is a territory, so it never made any of my lists. St. Bart’s has traffic jams. The U.S. Virgins have too much crime. Jamaica is where Nathan now resides. I chose Antigua as my first base of operations because there are seventy-five thousand people, almost all black like me, not overcrowded but not sparsely populated either. It’s a mountainous island with 365 beaches, one for each day, or so say the brochures and Web sites. I chose Antigua because its banks are notoriously flexible and known to look the other way. And, if for some reason the island displeases me, I’ll be quick to move along. There are too many other places to see.
We slam onto the runway and screech to a halt. The captain turns around and mouths the words “Sorry about that.” Pilots take great pride in their smooth landings, and this guy is probably embarrassed. As if I care. The only thing that matters right now is a safe exit from the plane and a smooth entry into the country. There are two other jets at the private terminal, and fortunately a
large one has just landed. At least ten adult Americans in shorts and sandals are heading into the building to get processed. I stall long enough to fall in behind them. As the Immigration and Customs agents go through their routines, I realize there are no scanners for the private passengers and their bags. Excellent! I say good-bye to the pilots. Outside the small building, I watch the other Americans load into a waiting van and disappear. I sit on a bench until my cab appears.
The villa is on Willoughby Bay, twenty minutes from the airport. I ride in the back of the cab, windows down, warm salty air blowing in my face, as we twist around one side of a mountain and slowly descend the other. In the distance, there are dozens of small boats moored in a bay, resting on blue water that seems perfectly still.
It is a furnished two-bedroom condo in a cluster of the same, not directly facing the beach but close enough to hear the waves break. It’s leased in my current name, and the three-month rental was covered by a Skelter Films check. I pay the cabdriver and walk through the front gate of Sugar Cove. A pleasant lady in the office gives me the key and a booklet on the ins and outs of the unit. I let myself in, turn on the fans and air-conditioning, and check out the rooms. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the ocean.
At precisely 5:30 p.m., Stanley Mumphrey and two of his underlings gathered around a speaker in the center of a conference room table. Within seconds, the voice of Victor Westlake came on, and after quick hellos Westlake said, “So, Stan, what do you make of it?”
Stanley, who’d been thinking of nothing else since receiving the e-mail four hours earlier, replied, “Well, Vic, it seems to me that we first need to decide whether we’re going to believe this guy again, don’t you think? I mean, he admits he got it wrong the last time. He doesn’t admit to lying to us, but instead says he just made a mistake. He’s playing games.”
“It will be hard to trust him again,” Westlake said.
“Do you know where he is right now?” Mumphrey asked.
“He just flew from Miami to Antigua, on a private jet. Last Friday, he flew from Roanoke to Jamaica on a private jet, then reentered the country Sunday as Malcolm Bannister.”
“Any idea what he’s doing with all these weird movements?”
“Not a clue, Stan. We’re baffled. He’s proven himself quite adept at disappearing and at moving money around.”
“Right. I have a scenario, Vic. Suppose he lied to us about Quinn Rucker. Maybe Rucker is part of the scheme and he played along so Bannister could get himself out of prison. Now they’re trying to save Rucker’s ass. Sounds like a conspiracy to me. Lying, conspiracy. What if we pop them with a sealed indictment, scoop up Bannister and throw him back in jail, then see how much he knows about the real killer. He might be more talkative from the other side of the bars.”
“So you believe him now?” Westlake asked.
“Didn’t say that, Vic, not at all. But if his e-mail is true, and if Dusty Shiver has an alibi, then we’re screwed with this prosecution.”
“Should we talk to Dusty?”
“We won’t have to. If he’s got the evidence, we’ll see it soon enough. One thing I can’t figure out, one of many, is why they sat on the evidence for so long.”
“Same here,” Westlake said. “One theory we’re floating is that Bannister needed the time to find the killer, if, of course, we are to believe him. Frankly, I don’t know what to believe at this point. What if Bannister knows the truth? We have nothing on our end. We don’t have a shred of physical evidence. The confession is shaky. And if Dusty has a smoking gun, then we’re all about to eat a bullet.”
Mumphrey said, “Let’s indict them and squeeze them. I’ll call in the grand jury tomorrow, and we’ll have an indictment within twenty-four hours. How much trouble will it be grabbing Bannister in Antigua?”
“A pain in the ass. He’ll have to be extradited. Could take months. Plus, he might vanish again. This guy is good. Let me talk to the boss before you call in the grand jury.”
“Okay. But if Bannister wants immunity, then it sounds as though he’s committed a crime and wants a deal, right?”
Westlake paused a second, then said, “It’s pretty rare for an innocent man to ask for immunity. It happens, but not very often. What crime are you thinking about?”
“Nothing definite, but we’ll find one. Racketeering comes to mind. I’m sure we can bend RICO to fit these facts. Conspiracy to impede the judicial process. Lying to the court and the FBI. Come to think of it, the indictment is growing the longer we talk. I’m getting pissed, Vic. Bannister and Rucker were pals at Frostburg and cooked up this scheme. Rucker walked away in December. Judge Fawcett was killed in February. And now it looks like Bannister fed us a bunch of crap about Rucker and his motives. Don’t know about you, Vic, but I’m beginning to feel as though we’ve been duped.”
“Let’s not overreact here. The first step is to determine if Bannister is telling the truth.”
“Okay, and how do we go about doing that?”
“Let’s wait on Dusty and see what he has. In the meantime, I’ll talk to my boss. Let’s chat again tomorrow.”
“You got it.”
CHAPTER 41
At a tobacco store in downtown St. John’s, I see something that freezes me, then makes me smile. It’s a box of Lavos, an obscure cigar hand wrapped in Honduras and costing twice as much in the States. The four-inch torpedo model sells for $5 in Antigua and $10 at the downtown Roanoke tobacco store called Vandy’s Smokes. It was there that Judge Fawcett routinely purchased his favorite brand. On the bottom side of four of the fourteen Lavo boxes we now have stashed in banks, there are white square stickers advertising Vandy’s, with phone number and street address.
I buy twenty of the Lavo torpedoes, and admire the box. It’s made of wood, not cardboard, and the name appears to have been hand carved across the top. Judge Fawcett was known to drift around Lake Higgins in his canoe, puffing on Lavos while fishing and enjoying the solitude. Evidently, he saved the empty boxes.
The cruise ships have not arrived yet, so downtown is quiet. Merchants sit in the shade outside their shops, chatting and laughing in their seductive, lilting version of the King’s English. I drift from shop to shop, oblivious to time. I have gone from the stultifying tedium of prison life, to the jolting madness of tracking a killer and his loot, to this-the languid pace of island living. I prefer the latter, for obvious reasons, but also because it is now, the present, and the future. Max is a new person with a new life, and the baggage is quickly falling by the wayside.
I buy some clothes, shorts and T-shirts, beach stuff, then wander into my bank, the Royal Bank of the East Caribbean, and flirt with the cute girl working the front desk. She directs me on down the line, and I eventually present myself to the vault clerk. She studies my passport, then leads me into the depths of the