the least bit annoyed or anxious. By now, my fourth day on Antigua, my wristwatch is in a drawer and I’m on island time. The changes are subtle, but I am slowly purging my system of the frenetic habits of modern life. My movements are slower; my thoughts, uncluttered; my goals, nonexistent. I’m living for today and casting an occasional, lazy eye at tomorrow; other than that, don’t bother me, mon.
Vanessa looks like a model when she bounces down the steps of the commuter flight from San Juan. A straw hat with a wide brim, designer shades, a summer dress that is delightfully short, and the easy grace of a woman who knows she’s a knockout. Ten minutes later, we’re in the Beetle and I have a hand on her thigh. She informs me she has been fired from her job because of excessive time off. And insubordination. We laugh. Who cares?
We go straight to lunch at the Great Reef Club, on a bluff overlooking the ocean, with a view that is hypnotic. The crowd is well-heeled and British. We are the only black diners, though all of the staff is of our kind. The food is just okay, and we vow to search out the local joints so we can eat with real people. I guess we’re technically rich, but it seems impossible to think in those terms. We don’t necessarily want the money as much as we want the freedom and security. I suppose we’ll grow accustomed to a better life.
After a dip in the ocean, Vanessa wants to explore Antigua. We put the top down, find a reggae station on the radio, and fly along the narrow roads like two young lovers finally escaping. Rubbing her legs and watching her smile, I find it difficult to fathom that we have made it this far. I marvel at our luck.
The summit is at the Blue Waters Hotel, on the northwestern tip of the island. I walk into the colonial-style main house, into the breezy lobby, all alone. I spot a couple of agents in bad tourist clothing as they sip sodas and try to appear innocuous. A real tourist here has an easy, casual look, while a Fed posing as a tourist looks like a misfit. I wonder how many agents, assistant attorneys, deputy directors, et cetera, managed to wedge themselves into this quick little trip to the islands, spouses included of course, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I walk through archways, past gingerbread woodwork, along picket fences to a wing where business can be done.
We meet in a small suite on the second level, with a view of the beach. I am greeted by Victor Westlake, Stanley Mumphrey, and four other men whose names I don’t even try to remember. Gone are the dark suits and drab ties, replaced by golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. Though it’s early August, most of the pale legs in the room have not seen the sun. The mood is light; I’ve never seen so many smiles in such an important gathering. These men are elite crime fighters, accustomed to hard, humorless days, and this little diversion is a dream for them.
I have one final, nagging doubt that this could be a setup. I could be walking into a trap, with these boys ready to spring an indictment, a warrant, an extradition order, and whatever else it might take to drag me back to jail. In that event, Vanessa has a plan, one that assures the protection of our assets. She is two hundred yards away, waiting.
There are no surprises. We’ve talked enough on the phone to know the parameters, and we get down to business. On a speaker-phone, Stanley places a call to Roanoke, to the office of Dusty Shiver, who now represents not only Quinn Rucker but his sister Vanessa and me. When Dusty is on the phone, he makes some lame crack about missing all the fun down in Antigua. The Feds roar with laughter.
We first review the immunity agreement, which basically says the government will not prosecute me, Quinn, Vanessa Young, or Denton Rucker (a.k.a. Dee Ray) for any possible wrongdoing in the murder investigation of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Naomi Clary. It takes fourteen pages to say this, but I’m satisfied with the language. Dusty has reviewed it too and wants a couple of minor changes from Mumphrey’s office. Being lawyers, they are required to haggle for a bit, but eventually come to terms. The document is redrafted, in the room, then signed and e-mailed to a federal magistrate on call in Roanoke. Thirty minutes later, a copy is e-mailed back with the magistrate’s approval and signature. In a legal sense, we are now Teflon.
Quinn’s freedom is a little more complicated. First, there is an Order of Dismissal that clears him of all charges relating to the murders, and it contains some benign language inserted by Mumphrey and his boys that attempts to soften the blame for their misguided prosecution. Dusty and I object, and the language is eventually removed. The order is e-mailed to the magistrate in Roanoke, and he signs it immediately.
Next is a Rule 35 motion to commute his sentence and set him free. It has been filed in the D.C. federal court from which he was sentenced for cocaine distribution, but Quinn is still in jail in Roanoke. I repeat what I’ve said several times already: I will not complete my end of the deal until Quinn has been released. Period. This has been agreed upon, but it takes the coordinated movements of several people, with instructions now coming from the speck of an island nation known as Antigua. Quinn’s sentencing judge in D.C. is on board, but he’s tied up in court. The U.S. Marshals Service feels the need to intrude and insists on moving Quinn when the time comes. At one point, five of the six lawyers in my meeting are on their cell phones, two while pecking away at laptops.
We take a break, and Vic Westlake asks me to join him for a cold drink. We find a table under a terrace beside a pool, away from the others, and order iced tea. He feigns frustration with the wasted time and so on. I am assuming he’s wearing a wire of some variety, and he probably wants to talk about the gold. I’m all smiles, the laid-back Antiguan now, but my radar is on high alert.
“What if we need your testimony at trial?” he asks gravely. This has been discussed at length and I thought things were clear. “I know, I know, but what if we need some extra proof?”
Since he does not yet have the name of the killer, or the circumstances, this question is premature, and it’s probably a warm-up to something else.
“My answer is no, okay? I’ve made that clear. I have no plans to ever return to the U.S. I’m seriously considering renouncing my citizenship and becoming a full-fledged Antiguan, and if I never set foot on U.S. soil again, I’ll die a happy man.”
“Somewhat of an overreaction, don’t you think, Max?” he says in a tone I despise. “You now have full immunity.”
“That might be easy for you to say, Vic, but then you’ve never spent time in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. The Feds nailed me once and almost ruined my life; it’s not going to happen again. I’m lucky in that I’m getting a second chance, and for some strange reason I’m a bit hesitant to subject myself to your jurisdiction again.”
He sips his tea and wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. “A second chance. Sailing off into the sunset with a pot of gold.”
I just stare at him. After a few seconds he says, a bit awkwardly, “We haven’t discussed the gold, have we Max?”
“No.”
“Let’s give it a go, then. What gives you the right to keep it?”
I stare at a button on his shirt and say, clearly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do not have any gold. Period.”
“How about the three mini-bars in the photo you e-mailed last week?”
“That’s evidence, and in due course I’ll give them to you, along with the cigar box in the other photo. I suspect these little exhibits are covered with fingerprints, both Fawcett’s and the killer’s.”
“Great, and the big question will be, Where’s the rest of the gold?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. You must agree, Max, that it will be important to the prosecution of the killer to know what was in Judge Fawcett’s safe. What got him killed? At some point, we’ll have to know everything.”
“Perhaps you won’t know everything; you never will. There will be ample evidence to convict this killer. If the government botches the prosecution, it will not be my problem.”
Another sip, a look of exasperation. Then, “You don’t have the right to keep it, Max.”
“Keep what?”
“The gold.”
“I do not have the gold. But, speaking hypothetically, in a situation like this it seems to me the loot belongs to no one. It’s certainly not the property of the government; it wasn’t taken from the taxpayers. You never had possession of it, never had a claim. You’ve never seen it and you’re not sure, at this point, if it even exists. It doesn’t belong to the killer; he’s a thief as well. He stole it from a public official who obtained it, we assume, through corruption. And if you could possibly identify the original source of the loot and tried to return it, those boys would either dive under a desk or run like hell. It’s just out there, sort of in the clouds, like the Internet, owned by no one.” I wave my hands at the sky as I finish this well-rehearsed response.
Westlake smiles because we both know the truth. There’s a twinkle in his eye, as if he wants to laugh in
