The Racketeer

CHAPTER 14

There was no ballistics report. The Smith amp; Wesson.38 was at the FBI crime laboratory at Quantico and would be analyzed as soon as the technicians arrived for work in about five hours. The sheet of paper Pankovits held like a weapon was a copy of some useless memo.

He and Delocke had an entire repertoire of dirty tricks, all approved by the U.S. Supreme Court. Using them would depend on how far Quinn allowed things to go. The immediate problem was the “lawyer” comment. If Quinn had said, clearly and unequivocally, “I want a lawyer!” or “I’m not answering any more questions until I have a lawyer!” or something along those lines, the interrogation would have ended immediately. But he hedged and used the word “maybe.”

Timing was crucial here. To divert attention away from the issue of a lawyer, the agents quickly changed the scenery. Delocke stood and said, “I need to take a leak.”

Pankovits said, “And I need more coffee. How about you, Quinn?”

“No.”

Delocke slammed the door as he left. Pankovits stood and stretched his back. It was almost 3:00 a.m.

Quinn had two brothers and two sisters, ages twenty-seven to forty-two, all at one point or another involved in the family’s drug-trafficking syndicate. One sister had eased out of the actual smuggling and selling but was still involved in various laundering operations. The other had left the business, moved away, and tried to avoid the family altogether. The youngest of the siblings was Dee Ray Rucker, a quiet young man who studied finance at Georgetown and knew how to move money around. He had one gun charge but nothing significant. Dee Ray really didn’t have the stomach for the fear and violence of the street life and tried to stay away from it. He lived with his girlfriend in a modest condo near Union Station, and it was there that the FBI found him shortly after midnight: in bed, unburdened by outstanding warrants or ongoing criminal investigations, oblivious to what was happening to his dear brother Quinn, carefree, and sleeping soundly. He was taken into custody without resistance but with an enormous amount of bitching. The squad of agents who snatched him offered little explanation. At the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue, he was hustled into a room where he was placed in a chair and surrounded by agents, all wearing navy parkas with “FBI” in bright yellow. The scene was photographed from several angles. After an hour of sitting handcuffed and being told nothing, he was removed from the room, walked back to the van, and driven home. He was deposited at the curb without another word.

His girlfriend fetched him some pills and he eventually settled down. He would call his lawyer in the morning and raise hell, but the entire episode would soon be forgotten.

In the drug trade, you don’t expect happy endings.

When Delocke returned from the restroom, he held the door open for a moment. A slender, attractive secretary of some variety entered with a tray of drinks and cookies, which she set on the edge of the table. She smiled at Quinn, who was still standing in the corner, too confused to acknowledge her. After she left, Pankovits popped a can of Red Bull and poured it over ice. “You need a Red Bull, Quinn?”

“No.” He served them all night at the bar, Red Bull and vodka, but had never cared for the taste. The break in the action gave him a moment to catch his breath and try to organize his thoughts. Should he continue, or should he remain silent and insist on a lawyer? His instincts were for the latter, but he was extremely curious about how much the FBI knew. He was reeling from what they had already discovered, but how far could they go?

Delocke fixed himself a Red Bull too, over ice, and munched on a cookie. “Have a seat, Quinn,” he said, waving him back to the table. Quinn took a few steps and sat down. Pankovits was already taking notes. “Your older brother, I believe they call him Tall Man, is he still in the D.C. area?”

“What’s he got to do with anything?”

“Just filling in some gaps here, Quinn. That’s all. I like to have all the facts, or as many as possible. Have you seen much of Tall Man in the past three months?”

“No comment.”

“Okay. Your younger brother, Dee Ray, is he still in the D.C. area?”

“I don’t know where Dee Ray is.”

“Have you seen much of Dee Ray in the past three months?”

“No comment.”

“Did Dee Ray go to Roanoke with you when you got arrested?”

“No comment.”

“Was anyone with you when you got arrested in Roanoke?”

“I was alone.”

Delocke exhaled in frustration. Pankovits sighed as if this were just another lie and they knew it.

“I swear I was alone,” Quinn said.

“What were you doing in Roanoke?” Delocke asked.

“Business.”

“Trafficking?”

“That’s our business. Roanoke is part of our territory. We had a situation there and I had to take care of it.”

“What kind of situation?”

“No comment.”

Pankovits took a long pull of his Red Bull and said, “You know, Quinn, the problem we have right now is that we can’t believe a word you’re saying. You lie. We know you lie. You even admit you lie. We ask a question, you give us a lie.”

“We’re getting nowhere, Quinn,” Delocke chimed in. “What were you doing in Roanoke?”

Quinn reached forward and took an Oreo. He pulled off the top, licked the creme, stared at Delocke, and finally said, “We had a mule down there who we suspected of being an informant. We lost two shipments under strange circumstances, and we figured things out. I went to see the mule.”

“To kill him?”

“No, we don’t operate that way. I couldn’t find him. He apparently got word and took off. I went to a bar, drank too much, got in a fight, had a bad night. The next day, a friend told me about a good deal on a Hummer, so I went to see it.”

“Who was the friend?”

“No comment.”

“You’re lying,” Delocke said. “You’re lying and we know you’re lying. You’re not even a good liar, Quinn, you know that?”

“Whatever.”

“Why did you title the Hummer in North Carolina?” Pankovits asked.

“Because I was on the run, remember? I was an escapee, trying not to leave a trail. Get it, fellas? Fake ID. Fake address. Fake everything.”

“Who is Jakeel Staley?” Delocke asked.

Quinn hesitated for a second, tried to shake it off, and answered nonchalantly, “My nephew.”

“And where is he now?”

“Federal pen somewhere. I’m sure you guys know the answer.”

“Alabama, serving eighteen years,” Pankovits said. “Jakeel got busted near Roanoke with a van full of cocaine, right?”

“I’m sure you have the file.”

“Did you try to help Jakeel?”

“When?”

Both agents overreacted with feigned frustration. Both took a sip of Red Bull. Delocke reached for another Oreo. There were a dozen left on the platter, and there was a pot full of coffee. From the looks of things, they planned to be there all night.

Pankovits said, “Come on, Quinn, stop playing games. We’ve established that Jakeel was busted in Roanoke, lots of coke, lots of years ahead in the pen, and the question is whether or not you tried to help the boy.”

“Sure. He’s part of the family, part of the business, and he got busted in the course of his employment. The family always steps forward.”

“Did you hire the lawyer?”

“I did.”

“How much did you pay the lawyer?”

Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t really remember. It was a sackful of cash.”

“You paid the lawyer in cash?”

“That’s what I just said. Nothing wrong with cash, last time I checked. We don’t use bank accounts and credit cards and things the Feds can follow. Just cash.”

“Who gave you the cash to hire the lawyer?”

“No comment.”

“Did you get the cash from Dee Ray?”

“No comment.”

Pankovits slowly reached for a thin file and removed a sheet of paper. “Well, Dee Ray says he gave you all the cash you would need in Roanoke.”

Quinn shook his head and offered a nasty smile that said, “Bullshit.”

Pankovits slid across an eight-by-ten color enlargement of a photograph of Dee Ray surrounded by FBI agents, with his hands cuffed, his mouth open, and his face angry. Delocke explained, “We picked up Dee Ray in D.C. about an hour after we brought you in. He likes to talk, you know. In fact, he talks a lot more than you do.”

Quinn stared at the photo and was speechless.

The Freezer. Four in the morning. Victor Westlake stood, again, and walked around the room. Movement was needed to fight off sleep. The other four agents were still awake, their systems pumped with over-the-counter amphetamines, Red Bull, and coffee. “Damn, these guys are slow,” one of them said.

“They’re methodical,” another replied. “They’re wearing him down. The fact that he’s still talking after seven hours is incredible.”

“He doesn’t want to go to the county jail.”

“Can’t blame him there.”

“I think he’s still curious. Cat and mouse. How much do we really know?”

“They’re not going to trick him. He’s too smart.”

“They know what they’re doing,” Westlake said. He sat down and poured another cup of coffee.

In Norfolk, Pankovits poured a cup of coffee and asked, “Who drove you to Roanoke?”

“Nobody. I drove myself.”

“What kind of car?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying, Quinn. Someone drove you to Roanoke the week before February 7. There were two of you. We have witnesses.”

“Then your witnesses are lying. You’re lying. Everybody’s lying.”

“You bought the Hummer on February 9, paid cash, and there was no trade-in. How did you get to the used-car lot that day when you bought the Hummer? Who took you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“So you don’t remember who took you?”

“I don’t remember anything. I was hungover and still about half drunk.”

“Come on, Quinn,” Delocke said. “These lies are getting ridiculous. What are you hiding? If you’re not hiding something, then you wouldn’t be lying so much.”

“What, exactly, do you want to know?” Quinn asked, hands in the air.

“Where did you get all that cash, Quinn?”

“I’m a drug dealer. I’ve been a drug dealer most of my life. I’ve spent time in prison because I’m a drug dealer. We burn cash. We eat cash. Don’t you understand this?”

Pankovits was shaking his head. “But, Quinn, according to your story, you were not working much for the family after your escape. They were afraid of you, right? Am I right about this?” he asked, looking at Delocke, who quickly confirmed that, yes, his partner was right about this.

Delocke said, “The family shunned you, so you began making runs down south and back. You say you earned about $46,000, which we now know is a lie, because you spent $24,000 on the Hummer and we found $41,000 in your storage unit.”

Pankovits said, “You came across some cash, Quinn. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you lying?”

“Everybody’s lying. I thought we all agreed on that.”

Delocke tapped the table and said, “Let’s go back a few years, Quinn. Your nephew Jakeel Staley is in jail, here in Roanoke, waiting on a trial. You paid his lawyer some amount in cash for legal services, right?”

“Right.”

“Was there more cash? A little extra to help grease the system? Maybe a bribe so the court would go easy on the kid? Anything like that, Quinn?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Come on, Quinn.”

“I paid the lawyer in cash. I assumed he kept the money for his fee. That’s all I know.”

“Who was the judge?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Does Judge Fawcett ring a bell?”

Quinn shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Did you ever go to court with Jakeel?”

“I was there when he was sentenced to eighteen years.”

“Were you surprised when he got eighteen years?”

“Yes, matter of fact I was.”

“He was supposed to get a lot less, wasn’t he?”

“According to his lawyer, yes.”

“And you were in court so you could get a good look at Judge Fawcett, right?”

“I was in court for my nephew. That’s all.”

The tag team paused at the same moment. Delocke took a sip of his Red Bull. Pankovits said, “I need to go to the men’s room. You okay, Quinn?”

Quinn was pinching his forehead. “Sure,” he replied.

“Get you something to drink?”

“How about a Sprite?”

“You got it.”

Pankovits took his time. Quinn sipped his drink. At 4:30, the interrogation was resumed when Delocke asked, “So, Quinn, have you kept up with the news during the past three months? Read any newspapers? Surely you’ve been curious about your own escape and whether or not it’s made the news?”

Quinn said, “Not really.”

“Did you hear about Judge Fawcett?”

“Nope. What about him?”

“Murdered, shot twice in the back of the head.”

No reaction from Quinn. No surprise. No pity. Nothing.

“You didn’t know that, Quinn?” Pankovits asked.

“No.”

“Two hollow-point bullets, fired from a.38-caliber handgun identical to the one we found in your trailer. Preliminary ballistics report says there’s a 90 percent chance your gun was used to kill the judge.”

Quinn began smiling and nodding. “Now I get it, this is all about a dead judge. You boys think I killed Judge Fawcett, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Great. So we have wasted, what, seven hours with this bullshit. You’re wasting my time, your time, Dee Ray’s time, everybody’s time. I ain’t killed nobody.”

“Have you ever been to Ripplemead, Virginia, population five hundred, deep in the mountains west of Roanoke?”

“No.”

“It’s the nearest town to a small lake where the judge was murdered. There are no black people in Ripplemead, and when one shows up, he gets noticed. The day before the judge was murdered, a black man matching your description was in town, according to the owner of a gas station.”

“A positive ID, or just a wild guess?”

“Something in between. We’ll show him a better photo of you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will, and I’ll bet his memory improves greatly.”

“It usually does,” Delocke said. “Four miles west of Ripplemead the world comes to an end. The asphalt stops, and a series of gravel roads disappear into the mountains. There’s an old country store called Peacock’s, and Mr. Peacock sees everything. The day before the murder, he says a black man stopped by asking for directions. Mr. Peacock can’t remember the last time he saw a black man in his part of the world. He gave a description. Matches you very well.”

Quinn shrugged and said, “I’m not that stupid.”

“Really? Then why did you hang on to the Smith amp; Wesson? When we get the final ballistics report, you’re dead, Quinn.”

“The gun’s stolen, okay? Stolen guns make the rounds. I bought it from a pawnshop in Lynchburg two weeks ago. It’s probably changed hands a dozen times in the past year.”

A good point, and one they could not argue with, at least not until the ballistics tests were completed. When they had the proof, though, no jury would believe Quinn’s story about a stolen gun.

Pankovits said, “We found a pair of combat boots in your mini-storage unit. A cheap pair of fake Army surplus, canvas, camouflage, all that crap. They are fairly new and have not been used that much. Why do you need combat boots, Quinn?”

“I have weak ankles.”

“Nice. How often do you wear them?”

“Not often if they’re in storage. I tried them, they rubbed a blister, I forgot about them. What’s the point?”

“The point is that they match a boot print we took from the soil not far from the cabin where Judge Fawcett was murdered,” Pankovits said, lying but doing so effectively. “A match, Quinn. A match that puts you at the scene.”

Quinn dropped his chin and rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and tired. “What time is it?”

“Four fifty,” Delocke replied.

“I need some sleep.”

“Well, that might be difficult, Quinn. We checked with the county jail and your cell is quite crowded. Eight men, four bunks. You’ll be lucky to get a spot on the floor.”

“I don’t think I like that jail. Could we try another one?”

“Sorry. Wait till you see death row, Quinn.”

“I ain’t going to death row because I didn’t kill anybody.”

Pankovits said, “Here’s where we are, Quinn. Two witnesses put you in the vicinity at the time of the murder, and the vicinity is not exactly a busy street corner. You were there and you were noticed and remembered. Ballistics will nail your ass. The boot print is icing on the cake. That’s the crime scene. After the crime, it gets even better, or worse, depending on one’s perspective. You were in Roanoke the day after the bodies were found, Tuesday, February 8, by your own admission and by way of the city’s jail records and court docket. And suddenly you had a satchelful of cash. You posted bond, then paid $24,000 for the Hummer, pissed away plenty more, and when we finally catch you, there’s another stash hidden in a mini-storage. Motive? There’s plenty of motive. You had a deal with Judge Fawcett to rule in favor of Jakeel Staley. You bribed him, something like $500,000, and after he took the cash, he forgot about the deal. He threw the book at Jakeel, and you vowed revenge. Eventually, you got it. Unfortunately, his secretary got in the way too.”

Delocke said, “A death penalty case, Quinn, open and shut. Federal death penalty.”

Quinn’s eyes closed as his body shrank. He began breathing rapidly as sweat formed above his eyebrows. A minute passed, then another. The tough guy was gone. His replacement said weakly, “You got the wrong guy.”

Pankovits laughed, and Delocke, sneering, said, “Is that the best you can do?”

“You got the wrong guy,” Quinn repeated, but with even less conviction.

“That sounds pretty lame, Quinn,” Delocke said. “And it’ll sound even weaker in the courtroom.”

Quinn stared at his hands as another minute passed. Finally, he said, “If you boys know so much, what else do you want?”

Pankovits replied, “There are a few gaps. Did you act alone? How did you open the safe? Why did you kill the secretary? What happened to the rest of the money?”

“Can’t help you there. I don’t know nothing about it.”

“You know everything, Quinn, and we’re not leaving until you fill in the gaps.”

“Then I guess we’re going to be here for a long time,” Quinn said. He leaned forward, placed his head on the table, and said, “I’m taking a nap.”

Both agents stood and picked up their files and notepads. “We’ll take a break, Quinn. We’ll be back in half an hour.”