"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.