"I agree," Stanley said quickly. "The next allegation is that the FBI agents threatened to prosecute other members of Rucker's family."
"Don't they always say that, Stan? They give a confession, free and voluntarily, then can't wait to tear it up and say they were threatened. You've seen this many times." Of course Stan had, though he really had not. Westlake went on, "Though I must say it wouldn't be a bad idea to round up all the Ruckers and give 'em the needle."
Westlake's men laughed. Stanley's men laughed. A regular party.
"What about the allegation that the interrogators were abusive and pushed the suspect past the point of exhaustion?"
"Here's the truth, Stan," Westlake replied. "The agents repeatedly asked Rucker if he wanted to stop and continue later. He said no because he did not want to spend the night in the county jail. We checked and the jail was packed, badly overcrowded. They informed Rucker of this, and he didn't want to go there."
This made perfect sense to Stanley. He said, "Okay, the next three items need to be addressed, but I don't think we'll say much about them in our response. There is the allegation that the FBI agents lied about having a ballistics report that linked the murders to the Smith & Wesson handgun confiscated from the defendant. Unfortunately, as we now know, the ballistics excluded this weapon."
"Lying is permissible, especially in a high-level interrogation such as this, Stanley," Westlake said, much like a wise old professor.
"Got that, but just to satisfy my curiosity - did your agents actually lie about this?"
"Of course not. No, definitely not. Page twelve of their affidavits."
"Didn't think so. What about this next allegation - that your agents lied about the existence of a crime scene boot print that matched some boots taken from the defendant?"
"Not true, Stan. The imagination of a desperate lawyer and his guilty client."
"Do you have a boot print?"
Westlake glanced at one of his agents, as though there just might be a boot print that he had somehow forgotten. The agent shook his head. "No," Westlake admitted. "There's no boot print."
"And next we have the allegation that your agents lied about a couple of eyewitnesses. The first supposedly saw the defendant in the town of Ripplemead about the time of the killings. Any truth to this?"
Westlake shifted his weight from one ass cheek to the other and offered a condescending smile. "Stan, look, I'm not sure you appreciate what it takes to break down a guilty suspect. There are tricks, okay, and - "
"I get it."
"And you have to instill fear, to make the suspect think you have a lot more proof than maybe you actually have."
"I've seen no report from such a witness."
"And you will not. He doesn't exist."
"We're on the same side, here, Vic. I just need to know the truth so we can respond to the motion to suppress, understand?"
"I understand."
"And the second witness, the one at the country store near the cabin. He doesn't exist either, right?"
"Right."
"Did the agents use any other tricks that I don't know about?"
"No," Westlake said, but no one in the room believed him.
"So, to summarize our case against Quinn Rucker, we have no eyewitnesses, no ballistics, no boot print, no fingerprints, no physical evidence of any kind, correct?"
Westlake nodded slowly but said nothing.
"We have a defendant who was in the Roanoke area after the murders, but no proof he was here beforehand, right?"
More nodding.
"And our defendant was caught with more cash than one would normally carry around, substantially more, I would say."
Westlake agreed.
"But then Mr. Rucker is a self-confessed drug runner from a family notorious for trafficking, so cash would not be a problem." Stanley shoved his legal pad away and rubbed his temples. "Gentlemen, we have a confession and nothing else. If we lose the confession, then Mr. Rucker walks and there's no trial."
"You can't lose the confession, Stan," Westlake said. "It's unthinkable."
"I have no plans to lose it, but I can see the judge taking a dim view of the interrogation. The length of it bothers me. Ten hours throughout the night. An obviously fatigued suspect who's a seasoned crook and would probably want to see a lawyer. Two veteran interrogators who know all the tricks. This might be a close call."
Westlake listened with a smile and after a long pause said, "Let's not forget our star witness, Stan. Malcolm Bannister will testify that Quinn Rucker talked repeatedly of murdering Judge Fawcett. He wanted revenge, and he wanted his money back."
"True, and his testimony, plus the confession, will get a conviction. But standing alone, his testimony is not enough."
"You don't sound too confident, Stan."
"Quite the contrary. This is the murder of a federal judge. I cannot imagine another federal judge showing any sympathy for Quinn Rucker. We'll have the confession, and we have Malcolm Bannister. We'll get a conviction."
"Now you're talking."
"By the way, what's up with our boy Bannister?"
"Safe and sound, buried deep by the U.S. Marshals."
"Where is he?"
"Sorry, Stan. Some things we cannot talk about. But have no worries. He'll be here when we need him."
Chapter 23
Pat Surhoff's replacement is Diana Tyler. I meet them for lunch after a long morning at the hospital, where I was examined and was told to return in a month. Ms. Tyler is a tall, pretty woman of about fifty, with a short haircut, little makeup, a navy blazer, and no wedding band. She's pleasant enough and over salads gives me her spiel. She lives "in the area" and works with a few others who share my situation. She is available 24/7 and would like to have a chat by phone at least once a week. She understands what I'm going through and says it's natural to keep looking over my shoulder. With time, though, those fears will go away, and my life will become quite normal. If I leave town, and they stress this is something I can now do whenever I want, she would like the details of my trip in advance. They want to keep close tabs on me until long after I testify against Quinn Rucker, and they persist in painting the picture of a safe and pleasant future that I will know one day when all of the initial hurdles have been cleared.
They mention the two job interviews, and I throw a curve by explaining I'm not ready for employment. With cash in the bank and unrestrained freedom, I'm just not ready to start a new career. I want to travel some, take long drives, and maybe go to Europe. Traveling is fine, they agree, but the cover works best if I have a real job. We decide to talk about it later. This leads to a conversation about a passport and an updated driver's license. Another week and my face should be ready to be photographed, and Diana promises to arrange the documentation.
Over coffee, I give Pat a letter to my father. The return address is the federal correctional facility in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He will send it to the prison there, and someone will mail it to Henry Bannister in Winchester, Virginia. In the letter I explain to old Henry that I screwed up at Frostburg and have been busted back to a regular prison. I am in solitary confinement and can have no visitors for at least three months. I ask him to notify my sister, Ruby, in California and my brother, Marcus, in D.C. I tell him not to worry; I'm fine and I have a plan to work my way back to Frostburg.