The Racketeer (19 page)

I am not being critical; it’s a gorgeous document.

CHAPTER 19

F
or Stanley Mumphrey, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, the event would be the biggest moment yet in his brief career as a federal prosecutor. On the job for two years now, appointed by the President, he had found it all rather mundane, and though it was a fabulous addition to his résumé, it was somewhat unfulfilling. Until, of course, Judge Fawcett and Ms. Clary were murdered. Instantly, Stanley’s career had new meaning. He had the hottest case in the country and, like many U.S. Attorneys, planned to make the most of it.

The gathering was advertised as a press conference, though none of the authorities planned to answer any questions. It was a show, nothing more, nothing less. A carefully orchestrated act intended to (1) feed some egos and (2) let the public, especially the potential jurors, know that the Feds had their man, and his name was Quinn Al Rucker.

By 9:00 a.m., the podium was covered with portable mikes, all advertising the television and radio stations from whence they came. The courtroom was packed with reporters of all stripes. Men with bulky cameras stepped on each other as they jockeyed for position, all under the watchful eyes of courtroom deputies.

In the rule books and decisions that govern the practice and procedure of criminal law, at both the state and the federal levels, nowhere is it written that the “announcement” or “handing
down” or “delivering” or “issuance” of an indictment must be publicized. In fact, almost none of them are. They are formally registered with the clerk once the grand jury makes its decision, and eventually served upon the defendant. An indictment is only one side of the case—the prosecution’s. Nothing contained within an indictment is evidence; at trial, the jury never sees it. The grand jury that issues an indictment hears only one side of the case, that presented by the government.

Occasionally, though, an indictment is too hot, too important, just too damned much fun, to be allowed to flow benignly through the system. It must be publicized by those who’ve worked so hard to catch a criminal and who will bring him to justice. Stanley Mumphrey did nothing to apprehend Quinn Rucker, but he was certainly the man who would put him on trial. In the federal pecking order, the U.S. Attorney far outranks a mere FBI agent; therefore, the event belonged to Stanley. As was customary, he would share (reluctantly) the spotlight with the FBI.

At 9:10, a door opened beside the bench, and a platoon of hard-nosed men in black suits flooded the space behind the podium. They jostled for position, all with their hands cupped over their balls. The arrangement here was crucial because the frame was only so wide. Standing at the podium, side by side, were Stanley Mumphrey and Victor Westlake—head prosecutor, head cop. Behind them were FBI agents and assistant prosecutors, inching together, squeezing, trying to find a good view of the cameras so the cameras could hopefully see them. The lucky ones would listen intently to Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake, and they would frown and act as if they had no clue there was a camera within two miles of the courthouse. It was the same pathetic routine perfected by members of Congress.

“This morning, we have an indictment in the murder case of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary,” Mumphrey said slowly, his voice nervous and at least two octaves higher than normal. He’d been struggling in the courtroom, losing the slam dunk
cases he assigned to himself, and the most common criticism was that he seemed jittery and out of place. Some felt that it was perhaps because he had spent so little time in the courtroom during his unremarkable ten-year career.

Stanley picked up the indictment and held it higher, as if those watching were now expected to read the print. “This indictment is for two counts of murder. The defendant is one Quinn Al Rucker. And, yes, I fully expect to seek the death penalty in this case.” This last sentence was supposed to send ripples of drama through the crowd, but Stanley’s timing was off. Drama came quickly, though, when an aide flashed a large black-and-white photo of Quinn on a screen. Finally, the world saw the man who killed the judge and his secretary. Guilty!

Reading shakily from his notes, Stanley gave the background on Quinn and managed to convey the impression that Quinn had escaped from prison for the sole purpose of exacting revenge against the judge. At one point, Victor Westlake, standing sentry-like at his shoulder, frowned and glanced down at his notes. But Stanley marched on, almost blubbering about his beloved friend and mentor Raymond Fawcett, how much the judge meant to him, and so on. His voice actually shook a bit when he tried to explain how honored he was to have the awesome responsibility of seeking justice for these “gruesome” murders. It would have taken about two minutes to read the entire indictment, then go home. But no. With a crowd like this, and millions watching, Stanley found it necessary to ramble on and give a speech, one about justice and the war on crime. After several painful digressions, he got back on track near the end when it was time to hand off. He praised Victor Westlake and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation for its work, work that was “superhuman, tireless, and brilliant.”

When he finally shut up, Westlake thanked him, though it was unclear if he was thanking him for shutting up or for passing along so many compliments. Westlake was far more experienced
in these productions than young Stanley, and he spoke for five minutes without saying anything. He thanked his men, said he was confident the case had been solved, and wished the prosecution well. When he finished and took a step back, a reporter yelled a question. Westlake snapped, “No comment,” and indicated it was time to go. Stanley, though, wasn’t ready to leave all those cameras. For a second or two he smiled goofily at the crowd, as if to say, “Here I am.” Then Westlake whispered something to him.

“Thank you,” Stanley said and backed away. The event was over.

I watch the press conference in my Best Western room. The thought crosses my mind that, with Stanley in charge, Quinn may have a fighting chance after all. If the case goes to trial, though, Stanley will likely step aside and allow one of his seasoned assistants to handle matters. No doubt he’ll continue to work the media and begin plotting his run for a higher office, but the serious trial work will be done by the pros. Depending on how long things are delayed, Stanley might even be out of a job. He serves a four-year term, same as the President. When a challenger captures the White House, all U.S. Attorneys are terminated.

When the press conference is over and the CNN talking heads begin babbling, I switch channels but find nothing of interest. Armed with the remote, I have total control over the television. I am adjusting to freedom with remarkable ease. I can sleep until I wake up. I can choose what I wear, though the choices so far are limited. Most important, there is no cell mate, no one else to contend with in a ten-by-twelve cube. I’ve measured the motel room twice—approximately sixteen feet wide and thirty feet long, including the bathroom. It’s a castle.

By mid-morning, we’re on the road, going south now, on Interstate 79. Three hours later we arrive at the airport in Charleston,
West Virginia, where we say farewell to Agent Chris Hanski. He wishes me well, and I thank him for his courtesies. Pat Surhoff and I board a commuter flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. I have no documentation, but the Marshals Service and the airline speak in code. I just follow Pat, and I have to admit I’m excited as I board the small plane.

The airport in Charlotte is a large, open, modern place, and I stand on a mezzanine for two hours and watch the people come and go. I am one of them, a free man, and I will soon have the ability to walk to the counter and buy a ticket going anywhere.

At 6:10, we board a nonstop flight to Denver. The code pulled off an upgrade, and Pat and I sit side by side in first class, compliments of the taxpayers. I have a beer and he has a ginger ale. Dinner is roasted chicken and gravy, and I suppose most of the passengers eat it for sustenance. For me, it’s fine dining. I have a glass of Pinot Noir, my first sip of wine in many years.

Victor Westlake and his entourage left the press conference and drove four blocks to the downtown law office of Jimmy Lee Arnold. They presented themselves to the receptionist, who was expecting them. Within minutes, she led them down a narrow hall to a large conference room and offered coffee. They thanked her and declined.

Jimmy Lee was a fixture in the Roanoke criminal bar, a twenty-year veteran of the drug and vice wars. He had represented Jakeel Staley, Quinn Rucker’s nephew, four years earlier. Like so many of the lone gunmen who labor near the fringes of the underworld, Jimmy Lee was a character. Long gray hair, cowboy boots, rings on his fingers, red-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. Though he was suspicious of the FBI, he welcomed them into his domain. These were not the first agents to visit; there had been many over the years.

“So, you got an indictment,” he said as soon as the introductions were over. Victor Westlake gave a bare-bones summary of the case against Quinn Rucker. “You represented his nephew Jakeel Staley a few years back, right?”

“That’s right,” Jimmy Lee said. “But I never met Quinn Rucker.”

“I’m assuming the family, or the gang, hired you to represent the kid.”

“Something like that. It was a private contract, not a court appointment.”

“Who from the family did you deal with?”

Jimmy Lee’s mood changed. He reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a small recorder. “Just to be safe,” he said as he pressed a button. “Let’s get this on the record. There are three of you, one of me. I wanna make sure there’s no misunderstanding of what’s said. Any problems with this?”

“No,” Westlake replied.

“Good. Now, you asked me who I dealt with from the family when I was hired to represent Jakeel Staley, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can answer that. Client confidentiality and all. Why don’t you tell me why you’re interested in this?”

“Sure. Quinn Rucker gave a confession. Said he killed Judge Fawcett because the judge reneged on a bribe; said he, the gang, paid $500,000 cash to Fawcett for a favorable ruling on the motion to suppress the search that yielded a van-load of coke.” Westlake paused and watched Jimmy Lee carefully. Jimmy Lee’s eyes yielded nothing. He finally shrugged and said, “So?”

“So, did you have any knowledge of this bribe?”

“If I knew about it, then that would be a crime, wouldn’t it? You think I’m stupid enough to admit to a crime. I’m offended.”

“Oh, don’t be offended, Mr. Arnold. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Did Quinn Rucker implicate me in the bribe?”

“He’s been vague so far, said only that a lawyer was the intermediary.”

“I’m sure this particular gang of thugs has access to a lot of lawyers.”

“Indeed. Were you surprised when Judge Fawcett denied the motion to suppress?”

Jimmy Lee smiled and rolled his eyes. “Nothing surprises me anymore. If you believe in the Constitution, then it was a bad search and the evidence, 150 kilos of pure coke, should have been kicked out. That would take some spine, and you don’t see much of that anymore, especially in big drug busts. It takes balls for a judge, state or federal, to exclude such wonderful evidence, regardless of what the cops did to get it. No, I wasn’t surprised.”

“How long did you practice in Judge Fawcett’s courtroom?”

“Since the day he was appointed, twenty years ago. I knew him well.”

“Do you believe he would take a bribe?”

“A cash bribe for a favorable ruling?”

“And a lighter sentence.”

Jimmy Lee crossed his legs, hanging one ostrich-skin boot on a knee, and locked his hands together just below his gut. He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ve seen judges make some outrageous decisions, but usually out of stupidity or laziness. But, no, Mr. Westlake, I do not believe Judge Fawcett, or any other state or federal judge within the Commonwealth of Virginia, would take a bribe, cash or otherwise. I said nothing surprises me, but I was wrong. Such a bribe would shock me.”