The Racketeer

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.
    But cover them we must. He changes subjects and says, “Looks like that little white girl is thinking about an abortion. Maybe I won’t be a great-grandfather after all.”
    “Delmon will do it again,” I say. We always expect the worst out of the kid.
    “We need to get him sterilized. He’s too stupid to use condoms.”
    “Buy him some anyway. You know Marcus is too broke.”
    “I only see the kid when he wants something. Hell, I’ll probably get hit up for the abortion. I think the girl’s trash.”
    While on the topic of money, I can’t help but think about the reward in the Fawcett case. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash. I’ve never seen so much money. Before Bo was born, Dionne and I realized one day we had saved $6,000. We put half in a mutual fund and took a cruise with the remainder. Our frugal habits were soon forgotten, and we never again had that kind of cash. Just before I was indicted, we refinanced our house to squeeze out every last drop of equity. The money went for legal fees.
    I’ll be rich and on the run. I remind myself not to get excited, but it’s impossible.
    Henry needs a new left knee, and we talk about this for some time. He’s always poked fun at old folks who dwell on their ailments, but he’s getting just as bad. After an hour, he’s bored and ready to go. I walk with him to the door, and we shake hands stiffly. As he leaves, I wonder if I will ever see him again.

    Sunday. No word from the FBI, or anyone else. I read four newspapers after breakfast and learn almost nothing new about Quinn Rucker and his arrest. However, there is one significant development. According to the
Post
, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Virginia will present the case to the grand jury tomorrow. Monday. If the grand jury issues an indictment, then, in theory and by agreement, I am supposed to become a free man.
    There is a surprising amount of organized religion in prison. As troubled men, we seek solace, peace, comfort, and guidance.We’ve been humiliated, humbled, stripped bare of dignity, family, and assets, and we have nothing left. Cast into hell, we look upward for a way out. There are a few Muslims who pray five times a day and stick to themselves. There is a self-appointed Buddhist monk with a few followers. No Jews or Mormons that I know of. Then there are us Christians, and this is where it gets complicated. A Catholic priest comes in twice a month for Mass at eight on Sunday mornings. As soon as the Catholics clear out of the small chapel, a nondenominational service is held for those from mainline churches—Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and so on. This is where I fit in on most Sundays. At 10:00 a.m., the white Pentecostals gather for a rowdy service with loud music and even louder preaching, along with healing and speaking in tongues. This service is supposed to end at 11:00 a.m. but often runs longer as the spirit moves among the worshippers. The black Pentecostals get the chapel at 11:00 a.m. but sometimes must wait while the white ones simmer down. I’ve heard stories of harsh words between the two groups, but so far no fights have erupted in the chapel. Once they get the pulpit, the black Pentecostals keep it throughout the afternoon.
    It would be wrong to get the impression that Frostburg is filled with Bible-thumpers. It is not. It’s still a prison, and the majority of my fellow inmates would not be caught dead in a church service.
    As I leave the chapel after the nondenominational service, a CO finds me and says, “They’re looking for you in the admin building.”

CHAPTER 17
    A gent Hanski is waiting with a new player in my game—Pat Surhoff, U.S. Marshal. We make our introductions and gather around a small table not far down the hall from the warden’s office. He, of course, would never be seen on the premises on a Sunday, and who could blame him?
    Hanski whips out a document and slides it across. “Here’s the indictment,” he says. “Came down late Friday afternoon in Roanoke, still a secret, but it will be released to the press first thing in the morning.” I hold it like a brick of gold and have trouble focusing on the words.
United States of America versus Quinn Al Rucker
. It’s been stamped in the top right corner, with last Friday’s