The Racketeer Page 0,125

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 surrender and say, "Helluva job." Of course, this doesn't happen.

We make our way back to the suite and are told that the judge in D.C. is still occupied with more important matters. I'm not about to lounge around the table with a bunch of federal boys, so I go for a walk on the beach. I call Vanessa, tell her things are proceeding slowly, and, no, I have not seen handcuffs or guns. So far, it's all aboveboard. Quinn should be released soon. She tells me Dee Ray is in Dusty's office waiting for their brother.

During his lunch break, the judge who had sentenced Quinn to seven years for trafficking reluctantly signed a Rule 35 order of commutation. The day before he had chatted with Stanley Mumphrey, Victor Westlake and his boss, George McTavey, and to underline the importance of what was before him, the Attorney General of the United States.

Quinn was immediately taken from the jail in Roanoke to the law offices of Dusty Shiver, where he hugged Dee Ray and changed into some jeans and a polo. One hundred and forty days after being arrested as a fugitive in Norfolk, Virginia, Quinn is a free man.

It's almost 2:30 by the time all the orders and documents are properly signed, examined, and verified, and at the last minute I step outside the room and call Dusty. He assures me we've "got 'em by the throat," all paperwork is in order, all rights are being protected, all promises are being fulfilled. "Start singing," he says with a laugh.

Six months after I arrived at the Louisville Federal Correctional Institution, I agreed to review the case of a drug dealer from Cincinnati. The court had badly miscalculated the term of his sentence, the mistake was obvious, and I filed a motion to get the guy released immediately with time already served. It was one of those rare occasions in which everything worked perfectly and quickly, and within two weeks the happy client went home. Not surprisingly, word spread through the prison and I was immediately hailed as a brilliant jailhouse lawyer capable of performing miracles. I was inundated with requests to review cases and do my magic, and it took a while for the buzz to die down.

Around this time, a guy we called Nattie entered my life and consumed more