The Racketeer

CHAPTER 6

Three days after my first meeting with Warden Wade, I am summoned back to his office. When I walk in, he is alone, on the phone, engaged in an important conversation. I stand awkwardly by the door, waiting. When he finishes his end of the chat, with a rude “That’ll do,” he gets to his feet and says, “Follow me.” We walk through a side door into an adjacent conference room painted in the typical government pale green and equipped with far more metal chairs than could ever be used.

An audit last year revealed that the Bureau of Prisons had purchased, for “administrative use,” four thousand chairs at $800 per chair. The same manufacturer sold the same chair at wholesale for $79. I shouldn’t care anymore, but working for thirty cents an hour gives one a different perspective when it comes to handling money.

“Have a seat,” he says, and I sit in one of the ugly and overpriced chairs. He selects one across the table because there must always be a barrier between us. I glance around and count twenty-two chairs. Let it go.

“I called Washington after you left the other day,” he says gravely, as if he checks in with the White House on a regular basis. “The bureau advised me to use my own discretion. I kicked it around for a few hours, then got in touch with the FBI down in Roanoke. They’ve sent two guys up; they’re waiting down the hall.”

I maintain a poker face, though I am thrilled to hear this.

He points a finger at me and says, “I’m warning you, Bannister. If this turns out to be a scam, and I get embarrassed, then I’ll do whatever I can to make your life miserable.”

“It’s not a scam, Warden, I swear.”

“I don’t know why I believe you.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

From his pocket he removes his reading glasses, perches them halfway down his nose, and looks at a slip of paper. “I spoke with Assistant Director Victor Westlake, the guy in charge of the investigation. He’s sent two of his men to have a chat with you, Agent Hanski and Agent Erardi. I did not reveal your name, so they know nothing.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

“Stay here.” He gently slaps the table, gets to his feet, and leaves the room. As I wait and listen for approaching footsteps, there is a sharp pain in my stomach. If this doesn’t work, I’m here for five more years, plus anything more they can possibly tack on.

Special Agent Chris Hanski is the senior guy, about my age with a lot of gray hair. Agent Alan Erardi is his younger sidekick. A newspaper article said there are now forty FBI agents working on the Fawcett case, and I assume these guys are pretty far down the chain of command. This first meeting will be important, as will all of them, but they’ve clearly sent a couple of foot soldiers to check me out.

The warden is not in the room. I figure he’s back in his office, not far away, with an ear stuck to the door.

They begin without using pens and notepads, a clear sign they are here for a little amusement. Nothing serious. I guess they’re not smart enough to realize I’ve spent hours across the table from FBI agents.

“So you want to make a deal,” Hanski says.

“I know who killed Judge Fawcett, and I know why. If this information is of any value to the FBI, then, yes, we might be able to make a deal.”

“You’re assuming we don’t already know,” Hanski says.

“I’m sure you don’t. If you did, why would you be here?”

“We were told to be here because we’re checking every possible lead, and we doubt seriously if this will lead anywhere.”

“Try me.”

They exchange cocky looks. Fun and games. “So you give us the name, and what do you get in return?”

“I get out of prison, and I get protection.”

“That simple?”

“No, it’s actually very complicated. This guy is a nasty character and he has friends who are even nastier. Plus, I’m not willing to wait two years until he’s convicted. If I give you the name, I get out now. Immediately.”

“What if he’s not convicted?”

“That’s your problem. If you screw up the prosecution, you can’t blame me.”

At this point, Erardi takes out his notepad, uncaps a cheap pen, and writes something down. I have their attention. They are still working much too hard to appear nonchalant, but these guys are under pressure. Their little task force is scrambling because they have no credible leads, according to the newspapers. Hanski continues, “What if you give us the wrong name? Let’s say we go chasing after the wrong suspect; meanwhile, you’re a free man.”

“I’ll never be a free man.”

“You’ll be out of prison.”

“And looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

“We’ve never lost an informant in witness protection. Over eight thousand and counting.”

“That’s what you advertise. Frankly, I’m not too concerned with your track record or what didn’t happen to the others. I’m worried about my own skin.”

There is a pause as Erardi stops writing and decides to speak. “This guy sounds like he’s in a gang of some sort, maybe a drug dealer. What else can you tell us?”

“Nothing, and I’ve told you nothing. You can make all the wild guesses you want.”

Hanski smiles at nothing that is humorous. “I doubt if our boss will be too impressed with your scheme to get out of prison. As of today, we’ve had at least two other inmates contact us and claim to have valuable information. Of course, they want out of prison too. This is not unusual.”

I have no way of knowing if this is true, but it sounds believable. The knot in my stomach has not gone away. I shrug, offer a smile, tell myself to stay cool. “You guys can play it any way you want. Obviously, you’re in charge. You can keep beating your heads against a wall. You can waste time with these other inmates. It’s up to you. But when you want to know the name of the person who killed Judge Fawcett, I can give it to you.”

“Someone you met in prison?” Erardi asks.

“Or maybe out of prison. You’ll never know until we have a deal.”

There is a long pause as they stare at me and I stare right back. Finally, Erardi closes his notepad and sticks his pen back in his pocket. Hanski says, “Okay. We’ll go tell our boss.”

“You know where to find me.”

Several times a week, I meet my White Gang at the track, and we walk in wide circles around a field used for soccer and flag football. Carl, the optometrist, will be out in a few months. Kermit, the land speculator, has two more years. Wesley, the state senator, should get out about the same time I do. Mark is the only one with his case still on appeal. He’s been here for eighteen months and says his lawyer is optimistic, though he freely admits he falsified some mortgage documents.

We don’t talk much about our crimes, and this is usually true in prison. Who you were or what you did on the outside is not important, and it’s also too painful to dwell on.

Wesley’s wife has just filed for divorce and he’s taking it hard. Since I’ve been through it, as has Kermit, we offer advice and try to cheer him up. I would love to entertain them with the details of my visit from the FBI, but this must be kept quiet. If my plan works, they will show up one day for a walk and I’ll be gone, suddenly transferred to another camp for reasons they will never know.