The Racketeer (14 page)

At 2:00 a.m., Quinn said, “Can I use the restroom?”

Delocke stood and escorted him out of the room and down the hall. Another agent loitered about, a show of force. Five minutes later, Quinn was back in his seat.

Pankovits said, “It’s rather late, Quinn, you want to check in at the jail and get some sleep? We have plenty of time.”

“I’d rather be here than in the jail,” he said sadly. “How much more time you think I’ll get?” he asked.

Delocke replied, “Don’t know, Quinn. That’s up to the U.S. Attorney. Bad part is that they won’t send you back to a camp. Ever. You’re headed for a real prison.”

“You know, Jesse, I sorta miss the camp. Wasn’t so bad after all.”

“Why’d you leave it?”

“Stupid. Why? Because I could. Just walk away and nobody seemed to care.”

“We interview twenty-five guys a year who walk away from a federal camp. ‘Stupid,’ I think, is the best word.”

Pankovits shuffled some papers and said, “Now, Quinn, I think we’ve got a handle on the time line here. Dates, places, movements, cash earnings. All of this will be included in your pre-sentence report. The good part is that you didn’t do anything exceptionally bad over the past three months. Some drug running, which of course will not help you, but at least you didn’t hurt anyone, right?”

“Right.”

“And this is the complete story, right? Nothing left out? You’re telling us everything?”

“Yep.”

The two agents stiffened somewhat and frowned. Pankovits
said, “What about Roanoke, Quinn? Did you spend any time in Roanoke?”

Quinn looked at the ceiling, gave it a thought, and said, “Maybe I passed through once or twice, but that’s all.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Delocke opened a file, scanned a sheet of paper, and asked, “Who is Jackie Todd?”

Quinn’s eyes closed as his mouth fell open slightly. A soft guttural sound, one from deep inside, came out, as if he’d been struck somewhere below the belt. His shoulders dropped. If he’d been white, he would have turned pale. “Don’t know,” he finally said. “Never met him.”

Delocke continued: “Really? Well, it looks like Mr. Jackie R. Todd was arrested on Tuesday night, February 8, at a bar in Roanoke. Public drunk, assault. The police report says he got in a fight with some other drunks and spent the night in jail. Next morning, he posted a cash bond of $800 and walked out.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Is that so?” Delocke slid across a sheet of paper, and Quinn slowly picked it up. It was a mug shot, clearly one of himself.

“Not much doubt about it, Quinn, right?”

Quinn laid down the sheet of paper and said, “Okay, okay. So I had an alias. What was I supposed to do? Play hide-and-seek with my real name?”

“Of course not, Quinn,” Pankovits said. “But you lied to us, didn’t you?”

“You’re not the first cops I’ve lied to.”

“Lying to the FBI can get you five years.”

“Okay, I fibbed a little.”

“No surprise there, but now we can’t believe anything. I guess we’ll have to start over.”

Delocke said, “On February 9, one Jackie Todd walked into a
used-car lot in Roanoke and paid $24,000 cash for a 2008 Hummer H3. This ring a bell, Quinn?”

“No. Wasn’t me.”

“Didn’t think so.” Delocke slid across a copy of the bill of sale. “And you’ve never seen this before, have you?”

Quinn looked at it and said, “No.”

Pankovits snapped, “Come on, Quinn. We’re not half as stupid as you think we are. You were in Roanoke on February 8, went to the bar, got in a fight, went to jail, bonded out the next morning, went back to your motel room at the Safe Lodge, back to the room you paid cash for, got some more cash and bought yourself a Hummer.”

“Where’s the crime in paying cash for a vehicle?”

“None whatsoever,” Pankovits said. “But you weren’t supposed to have that much cash at that point.”

“Maybe I was wrong with some of the dates and some of the cash payments. I can’t remember everything.”

“Do you remember where you bought the guns?” Delocke asked.

“What guns?”

“The Smith & Wesson .38 we found in your trailer and the Glock 9-millimeter we found in your storage unit, about two hours ago.”

“Stolen guns,” Pankovits added helpfully. “More federal offenses.”

Quinn slowly locked his hands behind his head and stared at his knees. A minute passed, then another. Without blinking and without moving a muscle, the two agents stared at Quinn. The room was silent, still, tense. Finally, Pankovits shuffled some papers and raised one. He said, “The preliminary inventory shows a wallet with $512 cash, a fake driver’s license from North Carolina, two prepaid Visa cards, a prepaid cell phone, the aforementioned Smith & Wesson .38, a bill of sale and a title for the Hummer, a lease agreement for the mini–storage unit, an insurance
certificate for the vehicle, a box of bullets for the .38, and a few other items, all taken from the mobile home you were renting for $400 a month. From the mini–storage unit, we have inventoried some clothing, the Glock 9-millimeter, a pair of combat boots, some other items, and, most important, a metal box with $41,000 in it, cash, all in $100 bills.”

Quinn slowly folded his arms across his chest and stared at Delocke, who said, “We have all night, Quinn. How about an explanation?”

“I guess the mule was busier than I remember. There were a lot of trips to Miami and back.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about all the trips?”

“Like I said, I can’t remember everything. When you’re on the run like that, you tend to forget things.”

“Do you remember using either of the guns for anything, Quinn?” Delocke asked.

“No.”

“Did you use the guns, or do you just not remember using the guns?”

“I did not use the guns.”

Pankovits found another sheet of paper and studied it gravely. “You sure about that, Quinn? This is a preliminary ballistics report.”

Quinn slowly pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He stretched and walked a few steps to a corner. “Maybe I need a lawyer.”

CHAPTER 14

T
here was no ballistics report. The Smith & 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.”