“Well, I really don’t have to shut up,” I said. “You can arrest me, but you can’t make me shut up. Do you realize this?”
“Just shut up.”
The goon on my right placed the barrel of his rifle on my knee.
“Please move that gun, would you?” I said, but the gun did not move.
We drove on. I said, “Are you guys getting your rocks off on this? Must be terribly exciting to dash about like real tough guys, roughing up innocent people, sort of like the Gestapo.”
“I said shut up.”
“And I said I’m not shutting up. You got a warrant for my arrest?”
“I do.”
“Let me see it.”
“I’ll show it to you at the jail. For now, just shut up.”
“Why don’t
I could see a portion of his neck just under his German combat helmet, and it was turning red as he fumed. I took a deep breath and told myself to be cool.
The helmet. I had worn the same type during my four years in the Marines, four years of active duty that included live combat in the first Gulf War. Second Regiment, Eighth Battalion, Second Division, U.S. Marine Corps. We had been the first U.S. troops to engage the Iraqis in Kuwait. It wasn’t much of a fight, but I saw enough dead and wounded on both sides.
Now I was surrounded by a bunch of toy soldiers who’d never heard a shot fired in anger and couldn’t run a mile without collapsing. And they were the good guys.
When we arrived at the jail, there was a photographer from the local newspaper. My goons walked me slowly inside, making sure I would be well photographed. Their version of the perp walk.
I would soon learn that another team of government thugs had raided the offices of Copeland, Reed amp; Bannister at about the same time I was sitting down for lunch with my fellow Civic Club members. With brilliant forethought and meticulous planning, the joint strike force waited until the noon hour when the only person in the office was poor Mrs. Henderson. She reported that they stormed through the front door with guns drawn, yelling, cursing, threatening. They tossed a search warrant on her desk, made her sit in a chair by the window, promised to arrest her if she did little more than breathe, then proceeded to ransack our modest suite of offices. They hauled away all of the computers, printers, and several dozen boxes of files. At some point, Mr. Copeland returned from lunch. When he protested, a gun was aimed at him, and he took a seat beside a weeping Mrs. Henderson.
My arrest was certainly a surprise. I had been dealing with the FBI for over a year. I had hired a lawyer and we had done everything possible to cooperate. I had passed two polygraph examinations administered by the FBI’s own experts. We had turned over all of the paperwork that I, as a lawyer, could ethically show anyone. I had kept a lot of this from Dionne, but she knew I was worried sick. I battled insomnia. I struggled to eat when I had no appetite. Finally, after almost twelve months of my living in fear and dreading the knock on the door, the FBI informed my lawyer that the government no longer had any interest in me.
The government lied, and not for the first or last time.
Inside the jail, a place I visited at least twice a week, there was yet another squad of agents. They wore navy parkas with “FBI” stamped in bold yellow lettering across the backs, and they buzzed around with great purpose, though I could not tell exactly what they were doing. The local cops, many of whom I knew well, backed away and looked at me with confusion and pity.
Was it really necessary to send two dozen federal agents to arrest me and confiscate my files? I had just walked from my office to the George Washington Hotel. Any half-assed cop on his lunch break could have stopped me and made the arrest. But that would take the joy out of what these vastly important people did for a living.
They led me to a small room, sat me at a table, removed the handcuffs, and told me to wait. A few minutes later, a man in a dark suit entered the room and said, “I’m Special Agent Don Connor, FBI.”
“A real pleasure,” I said.
He dropped some papers on the table in front of me and said, “This is the warrant for your arrest.” Then he dropped a thick bunch of stapled papers. “And this is the indictment. I’ll give you a few minutes to read it.”
With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him as hard as possible. It was a thick metal door, and it crashed and vibrated and the sound rattled around the room for a few seconds.
A sound I will never forget.
CHAPTER 6
Three days after my first meeting with Warden Wade, I am summoned back to his office. When I walk in, he is alone, on the phone, engaged in an important conversation. I stand awkwardly by the door, waiting. When he finishes his end of the chat, with a rude “That’ll do,” he gets to his feet and says, “Follow me.” We walk through a side door into an adjacent conference room painted in the typical government pale green and equipped with far more metal chairs than could ever be used.
An audit last year revealed that the Bureau of Prisons had purchased, for “administrative use,” four thousand chairs at $800 per chair. The same manufacturer sold the same chair at wholesale for $79. I shouldn’t care anymore, but working for thirty cents an hour gives one a different perspective when it comes to handling money.
“Have a seat,” he says, and I sit in one of the ugly and overpriced chairs. He selects one across the table because there must always be a barrier between us. I glance around and count twenty-two chairs. Let it go.
“I called Washington after you left the other day,” he says gravely, as if he checks in with the White House on a regular basis. “The bureau advised me to use my own discretion. I kicked it around for a few hours, then got in touch with the FBI down in Roanoke. They’ve sent two guys up; they’re waiting down the hall.”
I maintain a poker face, though I am thrilled to hear this.
He points a finger at me and says, “I’m warning you, Bannister. If this turns out to be a scam, and I get embarrassed, then I’ll do whatever I can to make your life miserable.”
“It’s not a scam, Warden, I swear.”
“I don’t know why I believe you.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
From his pocket he removes his reading glasses, perches them halfway down his nose, and looks at a slip of paper. “I spoke with Assistant Director Victor Westlake, the guy in charge of the investigation. He’s sent two of his men to have a chat with you, Agent Hanski and Agent Erardi. I did not reveal your name, so they know nothing.”
“Thank you, Warden.”
“Stay here.” He gently slaps the table, gets to his feet, and leaves the room. As I wait and listen for approaching footsteps, there is a sharp pain in my stomach. If this doesn’t work, I’m here for five more years, plus anything more they can possibly tack on.
Special Agent Chris Hanski is the senior guy, about my age with a lot of gray hair. Agent Alan Erardi is his younger sidekick. A newspaper article said there are now forty FBI agents working on the Fawcett case, and I assume these guys are pretty far down the chain of command. This first meeting will be important, as will all of them, but they’ve clearly sent a couple of foot soldiers to check me out.
The warden is not in the room. I figure he’s back in his office, not far away, with an ear stuck to the door.
They begin without using pens and notepads, a clear sign they are here for a little amusement. Nothing serious. I guess they’re not smart enough to realize I’ve spent hours across the table from FBI agents.
“So you want to make a deal,” Hanski says.
“I know who killed Judge Fawcett, and I know why. If this information is of any value to the FBI, then, yes, we might be able to make a deal.”
“You’re assuming we don’t already know,” Hanski says.
