The Racketeer

was over.

    I watch the press conference in my Best Western room. The thought crosses my mind that, with Stanley in charge, Quinn may have a fighting chance after all. If the case goes to trial, though, Stanley will likely step aside and allow one of his seasoned assistants to handle matters. No doubt he’ll continue to work the media and begin plotting his run for a higher office, but the serious trial work will be done by the pros. Depending on how long things are delayed, Stanley might even be out of a job. He serves a four-year term, same as the President. When a challenger captures the White House, all U.S. Attorneys are terminated.
    When the press conference is over and the CNN talking heads begin babbling, I switch channels but find nothing of interest. Armed with the remote, I have total control over the television. I am adjusting to freedom with remarkable ease. I can sleep until I wake up. I can choose what I wear, though the choices so far are limited. Most important, there is no cell mate, no one else to contend with in a ten-by-twelve cube. I’ve measured the motel room twice—approximately sixteen feet wide and thirty feet long, including the bathroom. It’s a castle.
    By mid-morning, we’re on the road, going south now, on Interstate 79. Three hours later we arrive at the airport in Charleston,West Virginia, where we say farewell to Agent Chris Hanski. He wishes me well, and I thank him for his courtesies. Pat Surhoff and I board a commuter flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. I have no documentation, but the Marshals Service and the airline speak in code. I just follow Pat, and I have to admit I’m excited as I board the small plane.
    The airport in Charlotte is a large, open, modern place, and I stand on a mezzanine for two hours and watch the people come and go. I am one of them, a free man, and I will soon have the ability to walk to the counter and buy a ticket going anywhere.
    At 6:10, we board a nonstop flight to Denver. The code pulled off an upgrade, and Pat and I sit side by side in first class, compliments of the taxpayers. I have a beer and he has a ginger ale. Dinner is roasted chicken and gravy, and I suppose most of the passengers eat it for sustenance. For me, it’s fine dining. I have a glass of Pinot Noir, my first sip of wine in many years.

    Victor Westlake and his entourage left the press conference and drove four blocks to the downtown law office of Jimmy Lee Arnold. They presented themselves to the receptionist, who was expecting them. Within minutes, she led them down a narrow hall to a large conference room and offered coffee. They thanked her and declined.
    Jimmy Lee was a fixture in the Roanoke criminal bar, a twenty-year veteran of the drug and vice wars. He had represented Jakeel Staley, Quinn Rucker’s nephew, four years earlier. Like so many of the lone gunmen who labor near the fringes of the underworld, Jimmy Lee was a character. Long gray hair, cowboy boots, rings on his fingers, red-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. Though he was suspicious of the FBI, he welcomed them into his domain. These were not the first agents to visit; there had been many over the years.
    “So, you got an indictment,” he said as soon as the introductions were over. Victor Westlake gave a bare-bones summary of the case against Quinn Rucker. “You represented his nephew Jakeel Staley a few years back, right?”
    “That’s right,” Jimmy Lee said. “But I never met Quinn Rucker.”
    “I’m assuming the family, or the gang, hired you to represent the kid.”
    “Something like that. It was a private contract, not a court appointment.”
    “Who from the family did you deal with?”
    Jimmy Lee’s mood changed. He reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a small recorder. “Just to be safe,” he said as he pressed a button. “Let’s get this on the record. There are three of you, one of me. I wanna make sure there’s no misunderstanding of what’s said. Any problems with this?”
    “No,” Westlake replied.
    “Good. Now, you asked me who I dealt with from the family when I was hired to represent Jakeel Staley, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Well, I’m not sure I can answer that. Client confidentiality and all. Why don’t you tell me why you’re interested in this?”
    “Sure. Quinn Rucker gave a confession. Said he killed Judge Fawcett because the judge reneged on a bribe; said he, the gang, paid $500,000 cash to Fawcett for a favorable ruling on the motion to