The Racketeer

I promise to call when I get a cell phone; the bank needs a phone number. I almost ask her to dinner, primarily because I’m convinced she might say yes, but I wisely let it pass. There will be plenty of time for that later, after I’m more comfortable and my face is easier to look at, hopefully.
    I proposed to Dionne when I was twenty-four years old, and from that moment until the day I was sentenced and taken into custody, I was never unfaithful. There was one near miss, with the wife of an acquaintance, but we both realized things would end badly. As a small-town lawyer, I saw a lot of divorces, and I was constantly amazed at the awful ways men could screw up their lives and families simply because they couldn’t resist temptation. A quickie, then a casual fling, then something more serious, and before long they were in court getting their eyeballs clawed out and losing their kids, along with their money. The truth wasI adored my wife and I was getting all the sex I wanted at home. The other part of the truth was that I never fancied myself as a ladies’ man.
    Before Dionne, I had girlfriends and enjoyed my single days, but I never hopped blindly from one bed to another. Now, forty-three and single, I have a hunch there are a lot of women around my age who are looking for companionship. I can feel the urge, but at the same time all movements must be calculated.
    As I walk out of the bank, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I just pulled off the first little mission of my secret existence. Pat has been waiting in the car, and when I get in he says, “Well?”
    “No problem.”
    “What took so long?”
    “The account manager is a cute girl and she threw herself at me.”
    “Has this always been a problem?”
    “I wouldn’t call it a problem, but, yes, women are attracted to me. I’ve always had to fight them off with a stick.”
    “Keep fighting. It’s been the downfall of many men.”
    “So you’re an expert on women?”
    “Not at all. Where are we going now?”
    “Shopping. I want some decent clothes.”
    We find a men’s store and I spend $800 upgrading my wardrobe. Once again, Pat waits in the car. We agree that two men, both in their early forties, one white and the other black, shopping together, might raise an eyebrow or two. My goal is to raise as few eyebrows as possible. Next, he drops me off at a Florida Cellular office where I open an account and buy an iPhone. With it in my pocket, I finally feel like a real American, connected.

    We spend the next two days running errands and getting Max firmly established. I write my first check to a car-leasing agencyand drive away in a used Audi A4 convertible, mine for the next twelve months at $400 a pop and fully insured. Now that I’m mobile, and now that Pat and I are getting on each other’s nerves, he starts talking about his exit. I’m ready for the independence and he’s ready to go home.
    I visit Gretchen again to check on the bank’s wiring instructions and explain to her that a substantial sum of money is on the way. Pat clears things with his higher-ups, and the reward money is moved from some buried account to SunCoast. I assume that everybody involved in the wire transfer invokes all the standard precautions.
    I have no way of knowing the wire is being watched.

CHAPTER 22
    D usty Shiver’s motion to suppress the confession was not at all unexpected. It was lengthy, well written, well reasoned, and backed up by a thirty-page affidavit signed by Quinn Rucker in which he fully recanted his confession. Three days after it was filed, Victor Westlake and two of his agents met with Stanley Mumphrey and two of his assistants. Their goal was to plow through the motion and prepare responses to it. Neither Mumphrey nor anyone else in his office was aware of the interrogation tactics used by Agents Pankovits and Delocke, nor did they know that Westlake and four of his men had watched by closed circuit the ten-hour marathon and had a tape of it. This information would never be revealed to the U.S. Attorney; thus, it would never be known to the defense, the judge, or anyone else.
    Stanley had been fully briefed by his lieutenants and took control of the meeting. He began by saying, “The first and most important issue is the allegation that the defendant wanted to talk to a lawyer.”
    Westlake nodded to an agent who whipped out some papers. Westlake said, “We have here two affidavits from Agents Pankovits and Delocke, our two