The Racketeer

CHAPTER 5

Every able-bodied federal inmate is required to have a job, and the Bureau of Prisons controls the pay scale. For the past two years, I have been the librarian, and for my labors I get thirty cents an hour. About half of this money, along with the checks from my father, is subject to the Inmate Financial Responsibility Program. The Bureau of Prisons takes the money and applies it to felony assessments, fines, and restitution. Along with my ten-year sentence, I was ordered to pay about $120,000 in various penalties. At thirty cents an hour, it will take the rest of this century and then some.

Other jobs around here include cook, dishwasher, table wiper, floor scrubber, plumber, electrician, carpenter, clerk, orderly, laundry worker, painter, gardener, and teacher. I consider myself lucky. My job is one of the best and does not reduce me to cleaning up after people. I occasionally teach a course in history for inmates pursuing their high school equivalency diplomas. Teaching pays thirty-five cents an hour, but I am not tempted by the higher wages. I find it quite depressing because of the low levels of literacy among the prison populations. Blacks, whites, browns-it doesn’t matter. So many of these guys can barely read and write, it makes you wonder what’s happening in our educational system.

But I’m not here to fix the educational system, nor the legal, judicial, or prison systems. I’m here to survive one day at a time, and in doing so maintain as much self-respect and dignity as possible. We are scum, nobodies, common criminals locked away from society, and reminders of this are never far away. A prison guard is called a correction officer, or simply a CO. Never refer to one as a guard. No sir. Being a CO is far superior; it’s more of a title. Most COs are former cops or deputies or military types who didn’t do too well in those jobs and now work in prison. There are a few good ones, but most are losers who are too stupid to realize they are losers. And who are we to tell them? They are vastly superior to us, regardless of their stupidity, and they enjoy reminding us of this.

They rotate COs to avoid one getting too close to an inmate. I suppose this happens, but one of the cardinal rules of inmate survival is to avoid your CO as much as possible. Treat him with respect; do exactly what he says; cause him no trouble; but, above all, try to avoid him.

My current CO is not one of the better ones. He is Darrel Marvin, a thick-chested, potbellied white boy of no more than thirty who tries to swagger but has too much tonnage on his hips. Darrel is an ignorant racist who does not like me because I am black and I have two college degrees, which is two more than he has. A fierce, internal battle rages every time I’m forced to suck up to this thug, but I have no choice. Right now, I need him.

“Good morning, Officer Marvin,” I say with a fake smile as I stop him outside the chow hall.

“What is it, Bannister?” he growls.

I hand over a sheet of paper, an official request form. He takes it and makes a pretense of reading it. I’m tempted to help him with the longer words but bite my tongue. “I need to see the warden,” I say politely.

“Why do you want to see the warden?” he asks, still trying to read the rather simple request.

My business with the warden is of no concern to the CO, or anyone else, but to remind Darrel of this would only cause trouble. “My grandmother is almost dead, and I would like to go to her funeral. It’s only sixty miles away.”

“When do you think she might die?” he asks, such a clever smart-ass.

“Soon. Please, Officer Marvin, I have not seen her in years.”

“The warden does not approve crap like this, Bannister. You should know this by now.”

“I know, but the warden owes me a favor. I gave him some legal advice a few months ago. Please, just pass it along.”

He folds the sheet of paper and stuffs it into a pocket. “All right, but it’s a waste of time.”

“Thanks.”

Both of my grandmothers died years ago.

Nothing in prison is designed for the convenience of the prisoner. The granting or denying of a simple request should take a few hours, but that would be too easy. Four days pass before Darrel informs me that I am to report to the warden’s office at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow, February 18. Another fake smile, and I say, “Thanks.”

The warden is the king of this little empire, with the expected ego of one who rules by edict or thinks he should. These guys come and go and it’s impossible to understand the purpose of all the transfers. Again, it’s not my job to reform our prison system, so I don’t worry about what happens in the administration building.

The current one is Mr. Robert Earl Wade, a career corrections man who’s all business. He’s fresh off his second divorce, and I did indeed explain to him some of the basics regarding Maryland alimony law. I enter his office; he does not stand or offer a hand or extend any courtesy that might indicate respect. He says, “Hello, Bannister,” as he waves at an empty chair.

“Hello, Warden Wade. How have you been?” I ease into the chair.

“I’m a free man, Bannister. Number two is history and I’ll never marry again.”

“Nice to hear and glad to help.”

With the warm-up quickly over, he shoves a notepad and says, “I can’t let you guys go home for every funeral, Bannister, you gotta understand this.”

“This is not about a funeral,” I say. “I have no grandmother.”

“What the hell?”

“Are you keeping up with the murder investigation of Judge Fawcett, down in Roanoke?” He frowns and jerks his head back as if he’s been insulted. I’m here under false pretenses, and somewhere deep in one of the countless federal manuals there must be a violation for this. As he tries to react, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “What the hell?”

“The murder of the federal judge. It’s all over the press.” It’s hard to believe he could have missed the story of the murder, but it’s also entirely possible. Just because I read several newspapers a day doesn’t mean everyone does.

“The federal judge?” he asks.

“That’s him. They found him with his girlfriend in a lake cabin in southwest Virginia, both shot-”

“Sure, sure. I’ve seen the stories. What’s this got to do with you?” He’s ticked off because I’ve lied to him, and he’s trying to think of the appropriate punishment. A supreme and mighty man like a warden cannot get himself used by an inmate. Robert Earl’s eyes are darting around as he decides how to react to my trickery.

I need to sound as dramatic as possible because Wade will probably laugh when I answer his question. Inmates have far too much spare time to develop intricate claims of their innocence, or to cook up conspiracy theories involving unsolved crimes, or to gather secrets that might be swapped for a sudden parole. In short, inmates are always scheming ways to get out, and I’m sure Robert Earl has seen and heard it all.

“I know who killed the judge,” I say as seriously as possible.

Much to my relief, he does not crack a smile. He rocks back in his chair, pulls at his chin, and begins to nod. “And how did you come across this information?” he asks.

“I met the killer.”

“In here or on the outside?”

“I can’t say, Warden. But I’m not bullshitting you. Based on what I’m reading in the press, the FBI investigation isn’t going anywhere. And it won’t.”

My disciplinary record is without blemish. I have never uttered a wrong word to a prison official. I have never complained. There is no contraband in my cell, not even an extra packet of sugar from the chow hall. I do not gamble or borrow money. I have helped dozens of fellow inmates, as well as a few civilians, including the warden, with their legal problems. My library is kept in meticulous order. The point being-for an inmate, I have credibility.

He leans forward on his elbows and exposes his yellow teeth. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are always moist. The eyes of a drinker. “And let me guess, Bannister, you would like to share this information with the FBI, cut a deal, and get out of prison. Right?”

“Absolutely, sir. That’s my plan.”

Finally, the laugh. A long high-pitched cackle that in itself would be the source of much humor. When he winds down, he says, “When is your release?”

“Five years.”

“Oh, so this is a helluva deal, right? Just give them a name, and trot right out of here five years ahead of schedule?”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“What do you want me to do, Bannister?” he snarls, the laughter long gone. “Call the FBI and tell ’em I gotta guy who knows the killer and is ready to cut a deal? They’re probably getting a hundred calls a day, most from fruitcakes sniffing around for the reward money. Why would I risk my credibility playing that game?”

“Because I know the truth, and you know I’m not a fruitcake, nor a bullshitter.”

“Why don’t you just write them a letter, keep me out of it?”

“I will, if that’s what you want. But you’ll be involved at some point because I swear I’m going to convince the FBI. We’ll cut our deal, and I’ll say good-bye. You’ll be here for the logistics.”

He slumps back in his chair as if overwhelmed by the pressure of his office. He picks his nose with a thumb. “You know, Bannister, as of this morning I have 602 men here at Frostburg, and you are the last one I would expect to sneak in my office with such a screwball idea. The very last.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I lean forward and stare him in the eyes. “Look, Warden, I know what I’m talking about. I know you can’t trust an inmate, but just hear me out. I have some extremely valuable information, and the FBI will be desperate to have it. Please call them.”

“I don’t know, Bannister. We’ll both look like fools.”

“Please.”

“I might think about it. Now shove off, and tell Officer Marvin that I denied your request to go to the funeral.”

“Yes sir, and thanks.”

My hunch is that the warden will not be able to resist a little excitement. Running a no-security camp filled with well-behaved inmates is a dull job. Why not get involved in the most notorious murder investigation in the country?

I leave the administration building and head across the quad, the central area of our camp. On the west side are two dormitories that house 150 men each, and these are matched by identical buildings on the east side of the quad. East campus and west campus, as though one were strolling through a pleasant little college.

The COs have a break room near the chow hall, and here I find dear Officer Marvin. If I set foot inside the break room I would probably be shot or hanged. The metal door is open, though, and I can see inside. Marvin is sprawled in a folding chair, cup of coffee in one hand and a thick pastry in the other. He’s laughing along with two other COs. If hooked by the necks and weighed together on meat scales, the three would push a thousand pounds.

“What do you want, Bannister?” Darrel growls when he sees me.

“Just wanted to say thanks, Officer. The warden said no, but thanks anyway.”

“You got it, Bannister. Sorry about your grandmother.”

And with that, one of the guards kicks the door closed. It slams hard in my face, the metal crashes and vibrates, and for a split second it shakes me to the core. I have heard that sound before.

My arrest. The Downtown Civic Club met for lunch each Wednesday at the historic George Washington Hotel, a five-minute walk from my office. There were about seventy-five members, and all but three were white. On that day, I happened to be the only black guy in attendance, not that this was of any significance. I was sitting at a long table, choking down the usual rubber chicken and cold peas and shooting the bull with the mayor and a State Farm agent. We had covered the usual topics-the weather and football-and we had touched lightly on politics, but this was always done with great care. It was a typical Civic Club lunch-thirty minutes for the food, followed by thirty minutes from a speaker who was usually not too exciting. However, on this memorable day I would not be allowed to hear the speech.

There was a commotion at the door of the banquet hall, then, suddenly, a squad of heavily armed federal agents swarmed the room as if they were about to kill all of us. A SWAT team, in complete ninja attire-black uniforms, thick vests, serious firearms, and those German combat helmets made famous by Hitler’s troops. One of them yelled, “Malcolm Bannister!” I instinctively stood and mumbled, “What the hell?” At least five automatic rifles were instantly aimed at me. “Hands up,” the fearless leader yelled, and I raised my hands. In a matter of seconds my hands were yanked down, slapped together behind me, and for the first time in my life I felt the indescribable pinch of thick cuffs on my wrists. It is a horrible feeling, and unforgettable. I was shoved down the narrow aisle between the dining tables and hustled out of the room. The last thing I heard was the mayor shouting, “This is an outrage!”

Needless to say, the dramatic invasion put a damper on the rest of the Civic Club meeting.

With these paramilitary goons swarming around me, I was taken through the lobby of the hotel and out the front door. Someone had graciously tipped off the local television station, and a camera crew filmed away as I was shoved into the rear seat of a black Chevrolet Tahoe, a goon on each side. As we headed for the city jail, I said, “Is all of this really necessary?”

The leader, riding front-seat shotgun, said, “Just shut up,” without turning around.

“Well, I really don’t have to shut up,” I said. “You can arrest me, but you can’t make me shut up. Do you realize this?”

“Just shut up.”

The goon on my right placed the barrel of his rifle on my knee.

“Please move that gun, would you?” I said, but the gun did not move.

We drove on. I said, “Are you guys getting your rocks off on this? Must be terribly exciting to dash about like real tough guys, roughing up innocent people, sort of like the Gestapo.”

“I said shut up.”

“And I said I’m not shutting up. You got a warrant for my arrest?”

“I do.”

“Let me see it.”

“I’ll show it to you at the jail. For now, just shut up.”

“Why don’t you shut up, okay?”

I could see a portion of his neck just under his German combat helmet, and it was turning red as he fumed. I took a deep breath and told myself to be cool.

The helmet. I had worn the same type during my four years in the Marines, four years of active duty that included live combat in the first Gulf War. Second Regiment, Eighth Battalion, Second Division, U.S. Marine Corps. We had been the first U.S. troops to engage the Iraqis in Kuwait. It wasn’t much of a fight, but I saw enough dead and wounded on both sides.

Now I was surrounded by a bunch of toy soldiers who’d never heard a shot fired in anger and couldn’t run a mile without collapsing. And they were the good guys.

When we arrived at the jail, there was a photographer from the local newspaper. My goons walked me slowly inside, making sure I would be well photographed. Their version of the perp walk.

I would soon learn that another team of government thugs had raided the offices of Copeland, Reed amp; Bannister at about the same time I was sitting down for lunch with my fellow Civic Club members. With brilliant forethought and meticulous planning, the joint strike force waited until the noon hour when the only person in the office was poor Mrs. Henderson. She reported that they stormed through the front door with guns drawn, yelling, cursing, threatening. They tossed a search warrant on her desk, made her sit in a chair by the window, promised to arrest her if she did little more than breathe, then proceeded to ransack our modest suite of offices. They hauled away all of the computers, printers, and several dozen boxes of files. At some point, Mr. Copeland returned from lunch. When he protested, a gun was aimed at him, and he took a seat beside a weeping Mrs. Henderson.

My arrest was certainly a surprise. I had been dealing with the FBI for over a year. I had hired a lawyer and we had done everything possible to cooperate. I had passed two polygraph examinations administered by the FBI’s own experts. We had turned over all of the paperwork that I, as a lawyer, could ethically show anyone. I had kept a lot of this from Dionne, but she knew I was worried sick. I battled insomnia. I struggled to eat when I had no appetite. Finally, after almost twelve months of my living in fear and dreading the knock on the door, the FBI informed my lawyer that the government no longer had any interest in me.

The government lied, and not for the first or last time.

Inside the jail, a place I visited at least twice a week, there was yet another squad of agents. They wore navy parkas with “FBI” stamped in bold yellow lettering across the backs, and they buzzed around with great purpose, though I could not tell exactly what they were doing. The local cops, many of whom I knew well, backed away and looked at me with confusion and pity.

Was it really necessary to send two dozen federal agents to arrest me and confiscate my files? I had just walked from my office to the George Washington Hotel. Any half-assed cop on his lunch break could have stopped me and made the arrest. But that would take the joy out of what these vastly important people did for a living.

They led me to a small room, sat me at a table, removed the handcuffs, and told me to wait. A few minutes later, a man in a dark suit entered the room and said, “I’m Special Agent Don Connor, FBI.”

“A real pleasure,” I said.

He dropped some papers on the table in front of me and said, “This is the warrant for your arrest.” Then he dropped a thick bunch of stapled papers. “And this is the indictment. I’ll give you a few minutes to read it.”

With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him as hard as possible. It was a thick metal door, and it crashed and vibrated and the sound rattled around the room for a few seconds.

A sound I will never forget.