The Racketeer

subtle, but I am slowly purging my system of the frenetic habits of modern life. My movements are slower; my thoughts, uncluttered; my goals, nonexistent. I’m living for today and casting an occasional, lazy eye at tomorrow; other than that, don’t bother me, mon.
    Vanessa looks like a model when she bounces down the steps of the commuter flight from San Juan. A straw hat with a wide brim, designer shades, a summer dress that is delightfully short, and the easy grace of a woman who knows she’s a knockout. Ten minutes later, we’re in the Beetle and I have a hand on her thigh. She informs me she has been fired from her job because of excessive time off. And insubordination. We laugh. Who cares?
    We go straight to lunch at the Great Reef Club, on a bluff overlooking the ocean, with a view that is hypnotic. The crowd is well-heeled and British. We are the only black diners, though all of the staff is of our kind. The food is just okay, and we vow to search out the local joints so we can eat with real people. I guess we’re technically rich, but it seems impossible to think in those terms. We don’t necessarily want the money as much as we wantthe freedom and security. I suppose we’ll grow accustomed to a better life.
    After a dip in the ocean, Vanessa wants to explore Antigua. We put the top down, find a reggae station on the radio, and fly along the narrow roads like two young lovers finally escaping. Rubbing her legs and watching her smile, I find it difficult to fathom that we have made it this far. I marvel at our luck.

    The summit is at the Blue Waters Hotel, on the northwestern tip of the island. I walk into the colonial-style main house, into the breezy lobby, all alone. I spot a couple of agents in bad tourist clothing as they sip sodas and try to appear innocuous. A real tourist here has an easy, casual look, while a Fed posing as a tourist looks like a misfit. I wonder how many agents, assistant attorneys, deputy directors, et cetera, managed to wedge themselves into this quick little trip to the islands, spouses included of course, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I walk through archways, past gingerbread woodwork, along picket fences to a wing where business can be done.
    We meet in a small suite on the second level, with a view of the beach. I am greeted by Victor Westlake, Stanley Mumphrey, and four other men whose names I don’t even try to remember. Gone are the dark suits and drab ties, replaced by golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. Though it’s early August, most of the pale legs in the room have not seen the sun. The mood is light; I’ve never seen so many smiles in such an important gathering. These men are elite crime fighters, accustomed to hard, humorless days, and this little diversion is a dream for them.
    I have one final, nagging doubt that this could be a setup. I could be walking into a trap, with these boys ready to spring an indictment, a warrant, an extradition order, and whatever else it might take to drag me back to jail. In that event, Vanessa has aplan, one that assures the protection of our assets. She is two hundred yards away, waiting.
    There are no surprises. We’ve talked enough on the phone to know the parameters, and we get down to business. On a speaker-phone, Stanley places a call to Roanoke, to the office of Dusty Shiver, who now represents not only Quinn Rucker but his sister Vanessa and me. When Dusty is on the phone, he makes some lame crack about missing all the fun down in Antigua. The Feds roar with laughter.
    We first review the immunity agreement, which basically says the government will not prosecute me, Quinn, Vanessa Young, or Denton Rucker (a.k.a. Dee Ray) for any possible wrongdoing in the murder investigation of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Naomi Clary. It takes fourteen pages to say this, but I’m satisfied with the language. Dusty has reviewed it too and wants a couple of minor changes from Mumphrey’s office. Being lawyers, they are required to haggle for a bit, but eventually come to terms. The document is redrafted, in the room, then signed and e-mailed to a federal magistrate on call in Roanoke. Thirty minutes later, a copy is e-mailed back with the magistrate’s approval and signature. In a legal sense, we are now Teflon.
    Quinn’s freedom is a little more complicated. First, there is an Order of Dismissal that clears him of all charges relating to the murders, and it contains some benign language inserted by Mumphrey and his boys that attempts to