“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.
CHAPTER 7
The FBI’s temporary headquarters for its Fawcett task force was a warehouse in an industrial park near the Roanoke Regional Airport. When last occupied, the space had been leased by a company that imported shrimp from Central America and froze it for years. Almost immediately it was tagged “the Freezer.” It offered plenty of space, seclusion, and privacy away from the press. Carpenters hurriedly built walls and sectioned off rooms, offices, hallways, and meeting places. Technicians from Washington worked around the clock to install the latest high-tech gear and gadgets for communication, data, and security. Trucks filled with rented furniture and equipment ran nonstop until the CC-command center-was stuffed with more desks and tables than would ever be used. A fleet of rented SUVs filled the parking lot. A catering service was hired to haul in three meals a day for the team, which soon numbered close to seventy-about forty agents plus support staff. There was no budget and no concern for costs. The victim was, after all, a federal judge.
A lease was signed for six months, but after three weeks of little progress there was a general mood among the Feds that they might be there longer. Aside from a short list of randomly picked suspects, all of whom were known to be violent and had appeared before Fawcett in the past eighteen years, there were no real leads. A man named Stacks had written the judge a threatening letter in 2002 from prison. Stacks was found working in a liquor store in Panama City Beach, Florida, and had an alibi for the weekend the judge and Ms. Clary were murdered. Stacks had not set foot in Virginia in at least five years. A narco-trafficker named Ruiz had cursed His Honor in Spanish when given a twenty-year sentence in 1999. Ruiz was still in a medium-security prison, but after a few days digging through his past, the FBI decided his former cadre of coke runners were all either dead or in prison too.
One team methodically sifted through every case Fawcett handled during his eighteen years on the bench. He had been a workhorse, handling 300 cases each year, both civil and criminal, while the average for a federal judge is 225. Judge Fawcett had sentenced approximately thirty-one hundred men and women to prison. Laboring under the admittedly shaky assumption that his killer was one of these, a team burned hundreds of hours adding names to its list of possible suspects and then discarding them. Another team studied the cases, both civil and criminal, pending before the judge when he was murdered. Another team spent all of its time on the Armanna Mines litigation, with particular attention paid to a couple of flaky environmental extremists who didn’t like Fawcett.
From the moment it got itself organized, the Freezer was a swarming hive of tension, with urgent meetings, frayed nerves, dead ends by the hour, careers on the line, and someone always barking from Washington. The press called nonstop. The bloggers were feeding the frenzy with creative and blatantly false rumors.
Then an inmate named Malcolm Bannister entered the picture.
The task force was run by Victor Westlake, a thirty-year career agent who had a nice office with a nice view in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. However, for almost three weeks now he had been holed up in a freshly painted room with no windows in the center of the CC. It was by no means his first road trip. Westlake had made his name years earlier as a master organizer who could rush to the scene of the crime, line up the troops, handle a thousand details, plan the attack, and solve the crime. He had once spent a year in a motel near Buffalo stalking a genius who got his kicks sending parcel bombs to federal meat inspectors. Turned out to be the wrong genius, but Westlake did not make the mistake of arresting his prey. Two years later he nailed his bomber.
Westlake was in his office, standing as always behind his desk, when Agents Hanski and Erardi entered. Since their boss was standing, they stood too. He believed that it was unhealthy, even deadly, to sit for hours behind a desk.
“Okay, I’m listening,” he barked, snapping his fingers.
Hanski quickly said, “Guy’s name is Malcolm Bannister, black male, aged forty-three, in for ten for RICO violations, federal court in D.C., former lawyer from Winchester, Virginia. Says he can deliver the name of the killer, along with his motive, but of course he wants out of prison.”
Erardi added, “Out immediately, but also protection.”
“What a surprise. A con wants out. Is he believable?”
Hanski shrugged. “For a con, I suppose. The warden says the guy is not a bullshitter, record is squeaky-clean, says we should listen to the guy.”
“What’d he give you?”
“Absolutely nothing. The guy is pretty smart. He might actually know something, and if he does, then this may be his only chance to walk.”
Westlake began to pace behind his desk, across the slick concrete floor, to one wall with fresh sawdust scattered in front of it. He paced back to his desk. “What kind of lawyer was he? Criminal? Drug dealers?”
Hanski replied, “Small town, general practice, some criminal experience, not much trial work, though. A former Marine.”
As a former Marine himself, Westlake liked this. “His military record?”
“Four years, honorable discharge, fought in the first Gulf War. His father was a Marine and a Virginia state trooper.”
“What took him down?”
“
You’re not going to believe it. Barry the Backhander.”
Westlake frowned and smiled at the same time. “Come on.”
“Seriously. He handled some real estate transactions for Barry and got caught up in the storm. As you’ll recall, the jury nailed them on RICO and conspiracy charges. I think there were eight of them tried at the same time. Bannister was a small fish who got caught in a wide net.”
“Any connection to Fawcett?”
“Not yet. We just got his name three hours ago.”
“You got a plan?”
“Sort of,” Hanski said. “If we assume Bannister knows the killer, then it’s safe to assume they met in prison. Doubtful that he would have met the guy on the quiet streets of Winchester; much more likely that their paths crossed in prison. Bannister has been in for five years, with the first twenty-two months in Louisville, Kentucky, a medium-security prison with a population of two thousand. Since then he’s been at Frostburg, a camp with six hundred inmates.”
“That’s a lot of people; plus, they come and go,” Westlake said.
“Right, so let’s start at the logical place. Let’s get his prison records, the names of his cell mates, maybe dorm mates. We’ll go to the two prisons, talk to the wardens, the unit managers, the COs, talk to anyone who might know something about Bannister and his friends. We’ll begin collecting names and we’ll see how many crossed paths with Fawcett.”
Erardi added, “He says the killer has nasty friends, thus the desire for protection. Sounds like a gang of some variety. Once we start adding names, we’ll concentrate on those with gang connections.”
A pause, then a doubtful Westlake said, “And that’s it?”
“It’s the best we can do for now.”
Westlake clicked his heels together, arched his back, gripped his hands behind his head, and breathed deeply. He stretched, and breathed, and stretched, then said, “Okay. Collect the prison records and get started. How many hands do you need?”
“Can you spare two men?”
“No, but you can have them. Go. Get started.”
Barry the Backhander. The client I never met until they dragged us into federal court one gray morning and read the entire indictment aloud.
In a ham-and-egg storefront law office, you learn the basics of many mundane legal tasks, but it’s difficult to specialize. I tried to avoid divorce and bankruptcy and I never liked real estate, but to survive I often had to take who and what walked in the door. Oddly, it would be real estate that brought about The Fall.
The referral came from a law school pal who was working for a midsized firm in central D.C. The firm had a client who wished to purchase a hunting lodge in Shenandoah County, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains, about an hour southwest of Winchester. The client desired great secrecy and demanded anonymity, which should have been the first warning sign. The purchase price was $4 million, and after some haggling, I negotiated a flat fee of $100,000 for Copeland, Reed amp; Bannister to handle the transaction. Such a fee had never been seen by me or my partners, and we were excited, initially. I set my other files aside and went to research the land records in Shenandoah County.
The lodge was about twenty years old and had been built by some doctors who enjoyed grouse hunting, but as happens with many such ventures, the partners had reached a disagreement. A serious one, involving lawyers and lawsuits, even a bankruptcy or two. After a couple of weeks, though, I had things sorted out and delivering a clean title opinion to my still anonymous client would be no problem. A closing date was set and I prepared all the necessary contracts and deeds. There was a lot of paperwork, but then again we were going to earn a rather fat fee.
The closing was delayed a month, and I asked my law school pal for $50,000, or half of the attorneys’ fees. This was not uncommon, and since I had invested a hundred hours at this point, I wanted to get paid. He called back to say the client would not agree. No big deal, I thought. In a typical real estate transaction, the attorneys are not paid until the closing takes place. I was informed that my client, a corporation, had changed its name. I redrafted the documents and waited. The closing was again delayed, and the sellers began threatening to walk away.
During this time, I was vaguely aware of the name and reputation of a Beltway operative by the name of Barry Rafko or, more famously, Barry the Backhander. He was about fifty years old and for most of his adult life had been rummaging around D.C. looking for a lazy way to make a buck. He had been a consultant, a strategist, an analyst, a fund-raiser, and a spokesman, and he had worked at the lower levels of a few election campaigns of congressmen and senators, both Democratic and Republican. Didn’t matter to Barry. If he was getting paid he could strategize and analyze from either side of the street. He hit his stride, though, when he and a partner opened a lounge near the Capitol. Barry hired some young hookers to tend bar in miniskirts, and almost overnight the place became a favorite meat market for the legions of staffers who swarm the Hill. Low-ranking congressmen and mid-ranking bureaucrats discovered the place, and Barry was on the map. With his pockets full of cash, his next venture was an upscale steak house two blocks from his lounge. He catered to lobbyists and offered great steaks and wines at reasonable prices, and before long senators were getting their preferred tables. Barry loved sports and bought lots of tickets-Redskins, Capitals, Wizards, Georgetown Hoyas-which he gave away to his friends. By this time he had founded his own “governmental relations” firm and it was growing rapidly. He and his partner had a fight, and Barry bought his interest in their holdings. Alone, wealthy, and fueled by ambition, Barry set his sights on the top of his profession. Unrestrained by ethical considerations, he became one of the most aggressive purveyors of influence in Washington. If a rich client wanted a new loophole in the tax code, Barry could hire someone to write it, insert it, convince his friends to support it, and then do a masterful job of covering it up. If a rich client needed to expand a factory back home, Barry could arrange a deal whereby the congressman would secure the earmark, send the money home to the factory, and pocket a sizable check for his reelection efforts. Everyone would be thrilled.
In his first brush with the law, he was accused of slipping cash to a senior adviser to a U.S. senator. The charge didn’t stick but the nickname did: Barry the Backhander.
Because he operated on the sleazier side of an often sleazy business, Barry knew the power of money, and sex. His yacht on the Potomac became a notorious love boat, famous for wild parties and plenty of young women. He owned a golf course in South Carolina where he took members of Congress for long weekends, usually without their wives.
For Barry, though, the more powerful he became, the more risks he was willing to take. Old friends drifted away, frightened by troubles that seemed inevitable. His name was mentioned in an ethics investigation in the House. The Washington Post picked up his scent, and Barry Rafko, a man who had always craved attention, was getting more than his share.
I had no idea, no real way of knowing, that the hunting lodge was one of his projects.
The corporate name changed again; the paperwork was redone. Another closing was delayed, then a new proposal: my client wanted to lease the lodge for one year at the rate of $200,000 a month, with all rentals to be applied to the purchase price. This led to a week of intense bickering, but a deal was finally reached. I reworked the contracts again and insisted my firm be paid half of our fee. This was done, and Mr. Copeland and Mr. Reed were somewhat relieved.
When the contracts were finally signed, my client was an offshore company operating on the tiny island of St. Kitts, and I still had no idea who was behind it. The contracts were signed by an unseen corporate representative down there in the Caribbean and shipped overnight to my office. As per our agreement, my client would wire into our law firm trust account the sum of $450,000 and some change, enough to cover the lease payments for the first two months, plus the remainder of our fee, plus some miscellaneous expenses. I would in turn write a $200,000 check to the seller
s for each of the first two months, then my client would replenish the account. After twelve months of this, the lease would be converted to a sale, with our little firm due another sizable fee.
When the wired funds hit our bank, the banker called to inform me that our trust account had just received $4.5 million, as opposed to $450,000. I figured someone got carried away with the zeros; plus, there could be worse things than having far too much money in the bank. But something didn’t add up. I tried to contact the shell company that was technically my client on St. Kitts but got the runaround. I contacted the law school pal who had referred the case, and he promised to look into the matter. I distributed the first month’s rent and the attorneys’ fee to our firm and waited for instructions to wire out the excess. Days passed, then weeks. A month later, the banker called to say that another $3 million had just landed in our trust account.
By this time, Mr. Reed and Mr. Copeland were deeply disturbed. I instructed my banker to get rid of the money-wire it back to the source from whence it came, and do so quickly. He grappled with this for a couple of days, only to find that the account in St. Kitts had been closed. Finally, my law school pal e-mailed me instructions to wire half the money to an account in Grand Cayman and the other half to an account in Panama.
As a small-time lawyer, I had zero experience wiring money to numbered accounts, but a few moments of light Google research revealed that I was walking blindly through some of the most notorious tax havens in the world. I wished I had never agreed to work for the anonymous client, in spite of the money.
The wire to Panama bounced back-some $3.5 million. I yelled at my law school pal and he yelled at someone up the line. The money stayed put for two months, drawing interest, though we could not ethically keep any of it. Ethics also required me to take all steps necessary to protect this unwanted money. It was not mine and I certainly made no claim to it, but, nonetheless, I had to safeguard it.
Innocently, or perhaps stupidly, I had allowed the tainted money of Barry the Backhander to rest under the control of Copeland, Reed amp; Bannister.
Once he had possession of the hunting lodge, Barry did a quick renovation, spruced it up a little, built a spa, and put in a heliport. He leased a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter, and it took about twenty minutes to haul ten of Barry’s best friends from D.C. to the hunting lodge. On a typical Friday afternoon, several shuttles were made and the partying began. By this time in his career he had cast aside most bureaucrats and lobbyists and concentrated primarily on congressmen and their chiefs of staff. At the lodge, everything was available: great food and wine, Cuban cigars, drugs, thirty-year-old scotch, and twenty-year-old women. An occasional grouse hunt got organized, but the guests were usually more preoccupied with the stunning collection of tall blondes at their disposal.
The girl was from Ukraine. During the trial-my trial-her handler said, in thickly accented English, that he had been paid $100,000 cash for the girl, who was taken to the hunting lodge and given a room. The cash had been handed over by a thug who testified, for the prosecution, that he had been one of Barry’s many bagmen.
The girl died. The autopsy revealed she had overdosed after a long night of partying with Barry and his friends from Washington. There were rumors that she failed to wake up one morning while in bed with a U.S. congressman, though this could not be proven. Barry circled the wagons long before the authorities arrived on the scene. Whom the girl had slept with during her last night on earth would never be revealed. A media storm erupted around Barry, his businesses, his friends, his jets, yachts, helicopters, restaurants, resorts, and the width and depth of his sordid influence. As the press stampeded to Barry, his cronies and clients sprinted away. Outraged members of Congress chased down reporters and demanded hearings and investigations.
The story turned much worse when the girl’s mother was located in Kiev. She produced a birth certificate showing her late daughter to be only sixteen years old. A sixteen-year-old sex slave partying with members of Congress at a hunting lodge in the Allegheny Mountains, barely a two-hour drive from the U.S. Capitol.
The original indictment ran on for a hundred pages and accused fourteen defendants of an astonishing variety of crimes. I was one of the fourteen, and my alleged crime had been what is commonly known as money laundering. By allowing one of Barry Rafko’s faceless corporations to park money in my firm’s trust account, I had supposedly helped him take dirty cash he pilfered from clients, scrub it up a bit offshore, then turn it into a valuable asset-the hunting lodge. I was also accused of helping Barry hide money from the FBI, the IRS, and others.
Pretrial maneuvering eliminated some of the defendants; several were allowed to peel off and either cooperate with the government or have their own separate trials. My lawyer and I filed twenty-two motions from the day I was indicted until the day I went to trial, and only one was granted. And it was a useless win.
The Department of Justice, through its FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office in D.C., threw everything it had against Barry Rafko and his confederates, including one congressman and one of his aides. It didn’t matter if a couple of us might be innocent, nor did it matter that our version of the truth would be distorted by the government.
There I was, sitting in a crowded courtroom with seven other defendants, including the most nefarious political operative Washington had produced in decades. I was guilty all right. Guilty of stupidity for allowing myself to fall into such a mess.
After the jury was selected, the U.S. Attorney offered me one last deal. Plead to one RICO violation, pay a fine of $10,000, and serve two years.
Once again, I told him to go to hell. I was innocent.
CHAPTER 8
Mr. Victor Westlake
Assistant Director, FBI
Hoover Building
PLEASE FORWARD
935 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, D.C. 20535
Dear Mr. Westlake:
My name is Malcolm Bannister, and I am an inmate at the Federal Prison Camp at Frostburg, Maryland. On Monday, February 21, 2011, I met with two of your agents investigating the murder of Judge Fawcett-Agents Hanski and Erardi. Nice guys and all, but I got the feeling they were not too impressed with me and my story.
According to this morning’s reports in the
Washington Post, New York Times, Wall Street Journal,