The Racketeer

Soon, though, I met the man who would eventually kill Judge Fawcett. I know the identity of the murderer, and I know his motive.

Motive is a baffling question for the FBI. In the weeks after the murder, the task force settles on the Arma

Intimidation is an unlikely motive. Fawcett has made his decision, and though his name is poison among the environmentalists, he has done his damage. His ruling was confirmed in 2009 by the Fourth Circuit, and the case is now headed for the U.S. Supreme Court. Pending the appeals, the uranium has not been touched.

Revenge is a motive, though the FBI says nothing about it. The words “contract killing” are being used by some reporters, who apparently have nothing to base this on except for the professionalism of the killings.

Given the crime scene and the empty safe that was so carefully hidden, robbery seems the likelier motive.

I have a plan, one I have been plotting for years now. It is my only way out.

CHAPTER 5

Every able-bodied federal inmate is required to have a job, and the Bureau of Prisons controls the pay scale. For the past two years, I have been the librarian, and for my labors I get thirty cents an hour. About half of this money, along with the checks from my father, is subject to the Inmate Financial Responsibility Program. The Bureau of Prisons takes the money and applies it to felony assessments, fines, and restitution. Along with my ten-year sentence, I was ordered to pay about $120,000 in various penalties. At thirty cents an hour, it will take the rest of this century and then some.

Other jobs around here include cook, dishwasher, table wiper, floor scrubber, plumber, electrician, carpenter, clerk, orderly, laundry worker, painter, gardener, and teacher. I consider myself lucky. My job is one of the best and does not reduce me to cleaning up after people. I occasionally teach a course in history for inmates pursuing their high school equivalency diplomas. Teaching pays thirty-five cents an hour, but I am not tempted by the higher wages. I find it quite depressing because of the low levels of literacy among the prison populations. Blacks, whites, browns—it doesn’t matter. So many of these guys can barely read and write, it makes you wonder what’s happening in our educational system.

But I’m not here to fix the educational system, nor the legal, judicial, or prison systems. I’m here to survive one day at a time, and in doing so maintain as much self-respect and dignity as possible. We are scum, nobodies, common criminals locked away from society, and reminders of this are never far away. A prison guard is called a correction officer, or simply a CO. Never refer to one as a guard. No sir. Being a CO is far superior; it’s more of a title. Most COs are former cops or deputies or military types who didn’t do too well in those jobs and now work in prison. There are a few good ones, but most are losers who are too stupid to realize they are losers. And who are we to tell them? They are vastly superior to us, regardless of their stupidity, and they enjoy reminding us of this.

They rotate COs to avoid one getting too close to an inmate. I suppose this happens, but one of the cardinal rules of inmate survival is to avoid your CO as much as possible. Treat him with respect; do exactly what he says; cause him no trouble; but, above all, try to avoid him.

My current CO is not one of the better ones. He is Darrel Marvin, a thick-chested, potbellied white boy of no more than thirty who tries to swagger but has too much to

“Good morning, Officer Marvin,” I say with a fake smile as I stop him outside the chow hall.

“What is it, Ba

I hand over a sheet of paper, an official request form. He takes it and makes a pretense of reading it. I’m tempted to help him with the longer words but bite my tongue. “I need to see the warden,” I say politely.

“Why do you want to see the warden?” he asks, still trying to read the rather simple request.

My business with the warden is of no concern to the CO, or anyone else, but to remind Darrel of this would only cause trouble. “My grandmother is almost dead, and I would like to go to her funeral. It’s only sixty miles away.”

“When do you think she might die?” he asks, such a clever smart-ass.

“Soon. Please, Officer Marvin, I have not seen her in years.”

“The warden does not approve crap like this, Ba

“I know, but the warden owes me a favor. I gave him some legal advice a few months ago. Please, just pass it along.”

He folds the sheet of paper and stuffs it into a pocket. “All right, but it’s a waste of time.”

“Thanks.”

Both of my grandmothers died years ago.

Nothing in prison is designed for the convenience of the prisoner. The granting or denying of a simple request should take a few hours, but that would be too easy. Four days pass before Darrel informs me that I am to report to the warden’s office at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow, February 18. Another fake smile, and I say, “Thanks.”

The warden is the king of this little empire, with the expected ego of one who rules by edict or thinks he should. These guys come and go and it’s impossible to understand the purpose of all the transfers. Again, it’s not my job to reform our prison system, so I don’t worry about what happens in the administration building.

The current one is Mr. Robert Earl Wade, a career corrections man who’s all business. He’s fresh off his second divorce, and I did indeed explain to him some of the basics regarding Maryland alimony law. I enter his office; he does not stand or offer a hand or extend any courtesy that might indicate respect. He says, “Hello, Ba

“Hello, Warden Wade. How have you been?” I ease into the chair.

“I’m a free man, Ba

“Nice to hear and glad to help.”

With the warm-up quickly over, he shoves a notepad and says, “I can’t let you guys go home for every funeral, Ba

“This is not about a funeral,” I say. “I have no grandmother.”

“What the hell?”

“Are you keeping up with the murder investigation of Judge Fawcett, down in Roanoke?” He frowns and jerks his head back as if he’s been insulted. I’m here under false pretenses, and somewhere deep in one of the countless federal manuals there must be a violation for this. As he tries to react, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “What the hell?”

“The murder of the federal judge. It’s all over the press.” It’s hard to believe he could have missed the story of the murder, but it’s also entirely possible. Just because I read several newspapers a day doesn’t mean everyone does.

“The federal judge?” he asks.

“That’s him. They found him with his girlfriend in a lake cabin in southwest Virginia, both shot—”

“Sure, sure. I’ve seen the stories. What’s this got to do with you?” He’s ticked off because I’ve lied to him, and he’s trying to think of the appropriate punishment. A supreme and mighty man like a warden ca