CHAPTER 9

I’m back in the warden’s office and something is up. He’s wearing a dark suit, starched white shirt, paisley tie, and his pointed-toe cowboy boots are fairly gleaming with fresh wax and polish. He’s still smug as ever but somewhat twitchy.

“I don’t know what you told them, Bannister,” he’s saying, “but they like your story. I hate to repeat myself, but if this is your idea of a prank, then you’ll pay dearly for it.”

“It’s not a prank, sir.” I suspect the warden was eavesdropping next door and knows exactly what I told them.

“They sent four agents here two days ago, snooped all over the place, wanted to know who you hung out with, who you did legal work for, who you played checkers with, where you worked, who you ate with, who you showered with, who you celled with, and on and on.”

“I shower alone.”

“I guess they’re trying to figure out who your buddies are, is that right?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I’m not surprised. I figured as much.” I knew the FBI was snooping around Frostburg, though I did not see the agents. Secrets are extremely hard to keep in prison, especially when outsiders appear and start asking questions. In my opinion, and based on some experience, it was a clumsy way to dig into my background.

“Well, they’re back,” he says. “They’ll be here at ten and they said it might take some time.”

It is five minutes before 10:00 a.m. The same sharp pain hits my gut again, and I try to breathe deeply without appearing obvious. I shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “Who’s coming?” I ask.

“Hell if I know.”

Seconds later, his phone buzzes, and his secretary relays a message.

We’re in the same room adjacent to the warden’s office. He, of course, is not present. Agents Hanski and Erardi are back, along with a fierce young man named Dunleavy, an assistant U.S. Attorney from the Southern District of Virginia, Roanoke office.

I’m gathering steam, gaining credibility and curiosity. My little group of interrogators is looking more impressive.

Though Dunleavy is the youngest of the three, he is a federal prosecutor, and the other two are simply federal cops. Therefore, Dunleavy has seniority at this moment and seems rather full of himself, not an unusual posture for a man in such a position. He can’t be more than five years out of law school, and I assume he’ll do most of the talking.

“Obviously, Mr. Bannister,” he begins with an obnoxious condescending tone, “we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have some interest in your little story.”

Little story. What a prick.

“Can I call you Malcolm?” he asks.

“Let’s stick with Mr. Bannister and Mr. Dunleavy, for now anyway,” I respond. I’m an inmate, and I haven’t been called Mr. Bannister in years. I kind of like the sound of it.

“You got it,” he snaps, then quickly reaches into a pocket. He pulls out a slender recording device and places it on the table, halfway between me on one side and the three of them on the other. “I’d like to record our conversation, if that’s okay.”

And with that, my cause takes a giant leap forward. A week ago, Hanski and Erardi were reluctant to remove their pens and take a few notes. Now the government wants to capture every word. I shrug and say, “I don’t care.”

He flips a switch and says, “Now, you say you know who killed Judge Fawcett, and you want to swap this information for a ticket out of here. And once out, you want our protection. That the basic structure of the arrangement?”

“You got it,” I say, mimicking his own words.

“Why should we believe you?”

“Because I know the truth, and because you guys are nowhere near it.”

“How do you know this?”

“I just do. If you had a serious suspect, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

“Are you in contact with the killer?”

“I’m not answering that question.”

“You gotta give us something, Mr. Bannister, something that will make us feel better about this little deal of yours.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it as little.”

“Then we’ll call it whatever you want. Why don’t you explain it. How do you see this big deal happening?”

“Okay. It has to be a secret, highly confidential. We have a written agreement, approved by the U.S. Attorney’s offices in both the Northern District, where I was prosecuted and sentenced, and the Southern District, where this investigation is taking place. Judge Slater, who sentenced me, will have to sign off on the agreement. Once we’ve agreed, then I’ll give you the name of the killer. You grab him, investigate him, and when the grand jury indicts him for the murder, I will suddenly be transferred to another prison. Except I will not be serving any more time. I leave here as though I’m being transferred, but instead I go into your witness protection program. My sentence will be commuted, my record expunged, my name changed, and I’ll probably want some plastic surgery to alter my appearance. I’ll get new papers, new looks, a nice federal job somewhere, and, to boot, I get the reward money.”

Three stone faces stare at me. Dunleavy finally says, “Is that all?”

“That’s it. And it’s not negotiable.”

“Wow,” Dunleavy mumbles, as if in shock. “I guess you’ve had plenty of time to think about this.”

“Far more than you.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if we pick up the wrong guy, somehow get an indictment, you walk, then we can’t prove a case?”

“That’ll be your problem. You screw up the prosecution, then it’s your fault.”

“Okay, but once we have our man, how much evidence will there be?”

“You have the entire federal government at your disposal. Certainly you guys can find enough evidence once you have the killer. I can’t do everything for you.”

For drama, Dunleavy stands and stretches and paces to one end of the room, as if tortured and deep in thought. Then he returns, takes his seat, glares at me. “I think we’re wasting our time here,” he says, a bad bluff delivered lamely by a kid who has no business even being in the room. Hanski, the veteran, lowers his head slightly and blinks his eyes. He can’t believe how bad this guy is. Erardi never takes his eyes off me, and I can sense the desperation. I can also feel the tension between the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office, which is not at all unusual.

I slowly get to my feet and say, “You’re right. We’re wasting our time. I’m not meeting with you again until you boys send in someone with more than peach fuzz. I’ve given you my deal, and the next time we chat I want Mr. Victor Westlake at the table, along with one of your bosses, Mr. Dunleavy. And if you’re in the room, then I’ll walk out.”

With that, I leave. I glance back as I close the door, and Hanski is rubbing his temples.

They’ll be back.

The meeting could have been scheduled to take place at the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington. Victor Westlake would have been happy to return home briefly, see the boss, check on his staff, have a nice dinner with his family, and so on. However, the Director wanted to take a quick road trip. He needed to get away from the building for a few hours, so he loaded his entourage onto a sleek private jet, one of four controlled by the FBI, and took off for Roanoke, a forty-minute flight.

His name was George McTavey, aged sixty-one, a career man and not a political appointee, though his politics currently had him in hot water with the President. According to the relentless gossip inside the Beltway, McTavey was barely hanging on to his job. The President wanted a new Director of the FBI. After fourteen years, McTavey needed to go. Morale was low inside the Hoover Building, so the gossip went. In the past few months, McTavey rarely passed up a chance to leave Washington, if only for a few hours.