The Racketeer

warrant, no probable cause, and no permission to search. When he found the cocaine, he went ballistic and everything changed.”
    I pause and take a sip of water. The agent with the laptop is pecking away, no doubt sending directives all over the East Coast.
    “What is the nephew’s name?” Westlake asks.
    “I don’t know, but I don’t think his last name was Rucker. Within his family, there are several last names and a fair number of aliases.”
    “And so the nephew’s case was assigned to Judge Fawcett?” Westlake asks, prompting me along, though no one seems to be in a hurry. They’re hanging on every word and anxious to find Quinn Rucker, but they want the whole story.
    “Yes, and Quinn hired a big lawyer in Roanoke, one who assured him the search was blatantly unconstitutional. If the search was thrown out by Fawcett, then so was the evidence. No evidence, no trial, no conviction, nothing. Somewhere in the process, Quinn learned that Judge Fawcett might look more favorably upon the nephew’s case if some cash could change hands. Serious cash. According to Quinn, the deal was brokered by their lawyer. And, no, I do not know the name of the lawyer.”
    “How much cash?” Westlake asks.
    “Half a million.” This is met with great skepticism, and I am not surprised. “I found it hard to believe too. A federal judge taking a bribe. But then I was also shocked when an FBI agent was caught spying for the Russians. I guess under the right circumstances, a man will do just about anything.”
    “Let’s stay on subject here,” Westlake says, irritated.
    “Sure. Quinn and the family paid the bribe. Fawcett took the bribe. The case crept along until one day when there was a hearing on the nephew’s motion to exclude the evidence that was seized during a bad search. Much to everyone’s surprise, the judge ruled against the nephew, in favor of the government, and ordered a trial. With no defense, the jury found the kid guilty, but the lawyer felt good about their chances on appeal. The case is still rattling on appeal. In the meantime, the nephew is serving an eighteen-year sentence in Alabama.”
    “This is a nice story, Mr. Bannister,” Westlake says, “but how do you know Quinn Rucker killed the judge?”
    “Because he told me he was going to do it, out of revenge and to retrieve his money. He talked about it often. He knew exactly where the judge lived, worked, and liked to spend his weekends. He suspected the money was hidden somewhere in the cabin,and he firmly believed he wasn’t the only one who’d been ripped off by Fawcett. And, because he told me, Mr. Westlake, he will target me as soon as he’s arrested. I might walk out of prison, but I’ll always look over my shoulder. These people are very smart—look at your own investigation. Nothing. Not a clue. They hold grudges, and they are very patient. Quinn waited almost three years to kill the judge. He’ll wait twenty years to get me.”
    “If he’s so smart, why would he tell you all of this?” Westlake asks.
    “Simple. Like a lot of inmates, Quinn thought I could file some brilliant motion, find a loophole, and get him out of prison. He said he would pay me; said I would get half of whatever he took off Judge Fawcett. I’ve heard this before, and since. I looked at Quinn’s file and told him there was nothing I could do.”
    They have to believe I’m telling the truth. If Quinn Rucker is not indicted, then I’ll spend the next five years in prison. We’re still on opposite sides, me and them, but we’re slowly reaching common ground.

CHAPTER 13
    S ix hours later, two black FBI agents paid the cover charge at the Velvet Club, three blocks away from the Norfolk Naval Base. They were dressed like construction workers and mixed easily with the crowd, which was half white, half black, half sailors, and half civilians. The dancers were also half-and-half, affirmative action all around. Two surveillance vans waited in the parking lot, along with a dozen more agents. Quinn Rucker had been spotted, photographed, and identified entering the club at 5:30. He worked as a bartender, and when he left his post at 8:45 to go to the restroom, he was followed. Inside the restroom, the two agents confronted him. After a brief discussion, they agreed to leave through a rear door. Quinn understood the situation and made no sudden moves. Nor did he seem surprised. As with many escapees, the end of the run was in many ways a relief. The dreams