The Racketeer

never marry again.”
    “Nice to hear and glad to help.”
    With the warm-up quickly over, he shoves a notepad and says, “I can’t let you guys go home for every funeral, Bannister, you gotta understand this.”
    “This is not about a funeral,” I say. “I have no grandmother.”
    “What the hell?”
    “Are you keeping up with the murder investigation of Judge Fawcett, down in Roanoke?” He frowns and jerks his head back as if he’s been insulted. I’m here under false pretenses, and somewhere deep in one of the countless federal manuals there must be a violation for this. As he tries to react, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “What the hell?”
    “The murder of the federal judge. It’s all over the press.” It’s hard to believe he could have missed the story of the murder, but it’s also entirely possible. Just because I read several newspapers a day doesn’t mean everyone does.
    “The federal judge?” he asks.
    “That’s him. They found him with his girlfriend in a lake cabin in southwest Virginia, both shot—”
    “Sure, sure. I’ve seen the stories. What’s this got to do with you?” He’s ticked off because I’ve lied to him, and he’s trying to think of the appropriate punishment. A supreme and mighty man like a warden cannot get himself used by an inmate. Robert Earl’s eyes are darting around as he decides how to react to my trickery.
    I need to sound as dramatic as possible because Wade will probably laugh when I answer his question. Inmates have far too much spare time to develop intricate claims of their innocence, or to cook up conspiracy theories involving unsolved crimes, or to gather secrets that might be swapped for a sudden parole. In short,inmates are always scheming ways to get out, and I’m sure Robert Earl has seen and heard it all.
    “I know who killed the judge,” I say as seriously as possible.
    Much to my relief, he does not crack a smile. He rocks back in his chair, pulls at his chin, and begins to nod. “And how did you come across this information?” he asks.
    “I met the killer.”
    “In here or on the outside?”
    “I can’t say, Warden. But I’m not bullshitting you. Based on what I’m reading in the press, the FBI investigation isn’t going anywhere. And it won’t.”
    My disciplinary record is without blemish. I have never uttered a wrong word to a prison official. I have never complained. There is no contraband in my cell, not even an extra packet of sugar from the chow hall. I do not gamble or borrow money. I have helped dozens of fellow inmates, as well as a few civilians, including the warden, with their legal problems. My library is kept in meticulous order. The point being—for an inmate, I have credibility.
    He leans forward on his elbows and exposes his yellow teeth. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are always moist. The eyes of a drinker. “And let me guess, Bannister, you would like to share this information with the FBI, cut a deal, and get out of prison. Right?”
    “Absolutely, sir. That’s my plan.”
    Finally, the laugh. A long high-pitched cackle that in itself would be the source of much humor. When he winds down, he says, “When is your release?”
    “Five years.”
    “Oh, so this is a helluva deal, right? Just give them a name, and trot right out of here five years ahead of schedule?”
    “Nothing is that simple.”
    “What do you want me to do, Bannister?” he snarls, the laughter long gone. “Call the FBI and tell ’em I gotta guy whoknows the killer and is ready to cut a deal? They’re probably getting a hundred calls a day, most from fruitcakes sniffing around for the reward money. Why would I risk my credibility playing that game?”
    “Because I know the truth, and you know I’m not a fruitcake, nor a bullshitter.”
    “Why don’t you just write them a letter, keep me out of it?”
    “I will, if that’s what you want. But you’ll be involved at some point because I swear I’m going to convince the FBI. We’ll cut our deal, and I’ll say good-bye. You’ll be here for the logistics.”
    He slumps back in his chair as if overwhelmed by the pressure of his office. He picks his nose with a thumb. “You know, Bannister, as of this morning I have 602 men here at Frostburg, and you are the last one I would expect to sneak in my office with such a screwball idea. The very last.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    I lean forward and stare him in the eyes. “Look,