The Racketeer

decades. I was guilty all right. Guilty of stupidity for allowing myself to fall into such a mess.
    After the jury was selected, the U.S. Attorney offered me one last deal. Plead to one RICO violation, pay a fine of $10,000, and serve two years.
    Once again, I told him to go to hell. I was innocent.

CHAPTER 8
    Mr. Victor Westlake
    Assistant Director, FBI
    Hoover Building
    PLEASE FORWARD
    935 Pennsylvania Avenue
    Washington, D.C. 20535
    Dear Mr. Westlake:
    My name is Malcolm Bannister, and I am an inmate at the Federal Prison Camp at Frostburg, Maryland. On Monday, February 21, 2011, I met with two of your agents investigating the murder of Judge Fawcett—Agents Hanski and Erardi. Nice guys and all, but I got the feeling they were not too impressed with me and my story
.
    According to this morning’s reports in the
Washington Post, New York Times, Wall Street Journal,
and
Roanoke Times,
you and your team are still chasing your tails and don’t have much of a clue. I have no way of knowing if you have a list of credible suspects, but I can guarantee you the real killer is not on any list compiled by you and your team
.
    As I explained to Hanski and Erardi, I know the identity of the killer, and I know his motive
.
    In case Hanski and Erardi screwed up the details, and by the way their note taking was not too impressive, here is my idea of a deal: I reveal the killer, and you (the Government) agree to my release from prison. I will not consider some type of conditional suspension of my sentence. I will not consider parole. I walk out, a free man, with a new identity and protection by the guys on your side
.
    Obviously, such a deal will necessitate the involvement of the Department of Justice and the U.S. Attorney’s offices in both the Northern and the Southern Districts of Virginia
.
    Also, I want the reward money, to which I will be entitled. According to the
Roanoke Times
this morning, it has just been increased to $150,000
.
    Please feel free to continue chasing your tails
.
    As a couple of former Marines, we really should talk
.
    You know where to find me
.
    Sincerely, Malcolm Bannister #44861-127

    My celly is a nineteen-year-old black kid from Baltimore, in for eight years for selling crack. Gerard is like a thousand other guys I’ve seen in the past five years, a young black from the inner cities whose mother was a teenager when he was born and whose father was long gone. He dropped out of school in the tenth grade and found a job as a dishwasher. When his mother went to prison, he moved in with his grandmother, who was also raising a horde of cousins. He started using crack, then selling it. In spite of a life on the streets, Gerard is a kindly soul with no mean streak. He hasno history of violence and no business wasting his life in prison. He’s one of a million young blacks being warehoused by the taxpayers. We’re approaching 2.5 million prisoners in this country, by far the highest rate of incarceration in any semicivilized nation.
    It’s not unusual to get a celly you really don’t like. I had one who required little sleep, and he played his iPod throughout the night. He had earphones, which are required after 10:00 p.m., but the volume was so high I could still hear the music. It took me three months to get a transfer. Gerard, though, understands the rules. He told me he once slept in an abandoned car for weeks and almost froze to death. Anything is better than that.
    Gerard and I begin each day at 6:00 a.m. when a buzzer wakes us. We dress quickly in our prison work clothes, careful to give each other as much space as our ten-by-twelve cell will allow. We make our bunks. He has the top one, and because of my seniority I have the bottom. At 6:30, we hustle over to the chow hall for breakfast.
    The chow hall has invisible barriers that dictate where one sits and eats. There is a section for the blacks, one for the whites, and one for the browns. Intermingling is frowned upon and almost never happens. Even though Frostburg is a camp, it is still a prison, with a lot of stress. One of the most important rules of etiquette is to respect each other’s space. Never cut in line. Never reach for anything. If you want the salt and pepper, ask someone to pass them, please. At Louisville, my prior home, fights were not unusual in the chow hall, and they were usually started when some jackass with sharp elbows infringed on someone else’s space.
    Here, though, we eat slowly and with manners that are