The Racketeer

I need to sound as dramatic as possible because Wade will probably laugh when I answer his question. Inmates have far too much spare time to develop intricate claims of their i

“I know who killed the judge,” I say as seriously as possible.

Much to my relief, he does not crack a smile. He rocks back in his chair, pulls at his chin, and begins to nod. “And how did you come across this information?” he asks.

“I met the killer.”

“In here or on the outside?”

“I can’t say, Warden. But I’m not bullshitting you. Based on what I’m reading in the press, the FBI investigation isn’t going anywhere. And it won’t.”

My disciplinary record is without blemish. I have never uttered a wrong word to a prison official. I have never complained. There is no contraband in my cell, not even an extra packet of sugar from the chow hall. I do not gamble or borrow money. I have helped dozens of fellow inmates, as well as a few civilians, including the warden, with their legal problems. My library is kept in meticulous order. The point being—for an inmate, I have credibility.

He leans forward on his elbows and exposes his yellow teeth. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are always moist. The eyes of a drinker. “And let me guess, Ba

“Absolutely, sir. That’s my plan.”

Finally, the laugh. A long high-pitched cackle that in itself would be the source of much humor. When he winds down, he says, “When is your release?”

“Five years.”

“Oh, so this is a helluva deal, right? Just give them a name, and trot right out of here five years ahead of schedule?”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“What do you want me to do, Ba

“Because I know the truth, and you know I’m not a fruitcake, nor a bullshitter.”

“Why don’t you just write them a letter, keep me out of it?”

“I will, if that’s what you want. But you’ll be involved at some point because I swear I’m going to convince the FBI. We’ll cut our deal, and I’ll say good-bye. You’ll be here for the logistics.”

He slumps back in his chair as if overwhelmed by the pressure of his office. He picks his nose with a thumb. “You know, Ba

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I lean forward and stare him in the eyes. “Look, Warden, I know what I’m talking about. I know you can’t trust an inmate, but just hear me out. I have some extremely valuable information, and the FBI will be desperate to have it. Please call them.”

“I don’t know, Ba

“Please.”

“I might think about it. Now shove off, and tell Officer Marvin that I denied your request to go to the funeral.”

“Yes sir, and thanks.”

My hunch is that the warden will not be able to resist a little excitement. Ru

I leave the administration building and head across the quad, the central area of our camp. On the west side are two dormitories that house 150 men each, and these are matched by identical buildings on the east side of the quad. East campus and west campus, as though one were strolling through a pleasant little college.

The COs have a break room near the chow hall, and here I find dear Officer Marvin. If I set foot inside the break room I would probably be shot or hanged. The metal door is open, though, and I can see inside. Marvin is sprawled in a folding chair, cup of coffee in one hand and a thick pastry in the other. He’s laughing along with two other COs. If hooked by the necks and weighed together on meat scales, the three would push a thousand pounds.

“What do you want, Ba

“Just wanted to say thanks, Officer. The warden said no, but thanks anyway.”

“You got it, Ba

And with that, one of the guards kicks the door closed. It slams hard in my face, the metal crashes and vibrates, and for a split second it shakes me to the core. I have heard that sound before.

My arrest. The Downtown Civic Club met for lunch each Wednesday at the historic George Washington Hotel, a five-minute walk from my office. There were about seventy-five members, and all but three were white. On that day, I happened to be the only black guy in attendance, not that this was of any significance. I was sitting at a long table, choking down the usual rubber chicken and cold peas and shooting the bull with the mayor and a State Farm agent. We had covered the usual topics—the weather and football—and we had touched lightly on politics, but this was always done with great care. It was a typical Civic Club lunch—thirty minutes for the food, followed by thirty minutes from a speaker who was usually not too exciting. However, on this memorable day I would not be allowed to hear the speech.

There was a commotion at the door of the banquet hall, then, suddenly, a squad of heavily armed federal agents swarmed the room as if they were about to kill all of us. A SWAT team, in complete ninja attire—black uniforms, thick vests, serious firearms, and those German combat helmets made famous by Hitler’s troops. One of them yelled, “Malcolm Ba

Needless to say, the dramatic invasion put a damper on the rest of the Civic Club meeting.

With these paramilitary goons swarming around me, I was taken through the lobby of the hotel and out the front door. Someone had graciously tipped off the local television station, and a camera crew filmed away as I was shoved into the rear seat of a black Chevrolet Tahoe, a goon on each side. As we headed for the city jail, I said, “Is all of this really necessary?”

The leader, riding front-seat shotgun, said, “Just shut up,” without turning around.

“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 i

“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.”