Stanley marched on, almost blubbering about his beloved friend and mentor Raymond Fawcett, how much the judge meant to him, and so on. His voice actually shook a bit when he tried to explain how honored he was to have the awesome responsibility of seeking justice for these "gruesome" murders. It would have taken about two minutes to read the entire indictment, then go home. But no. With a crowd like this, and millions watching, Stanley found it necessary to ramble on and give a speech, one about justice and the war on crime. After several painful digressions, he got back on track near the end when it was time to hand off. He praised Victor Westlake and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation for its work, work that was "superhuman, tireless, and brilliant."
When he finally shut up, Westlake thanked him, though it was unclear if he was thanking him for shutting up or for passing along so many compliments. Westlake was far more experienced in these productions than young Stanley, and he spoke for five minutes without saying anything. He thanked his men, said he was confident the case had been solved, and wished the prosecution well. When he finished and took a step back, a reporter yelled a question. Westlake snapped, "No comment," and indicated it was time to go. Stanley, though, wasn't ready to leave all those cameras. For a second or two he smiled goofily at the crowd, as if to say, "Here I am." Then Westlake whispered something to him.
"Thank you," Stanley said and backed away. The event was over.
I watch the press conference in my Best Western room. The thought crosses my mind that, with Stanley in charge, Quinn may have a fighting chance after all. If the case goes to trial, though, Stanley will likely step aside and allow one of his seasoned assistants to handle matters. No doubt he'll continue to work the media and begin plotting his run for a higher office, but the serious trial work will be done by the pros. Depending on how long things are delayed, Stanley might even be out of a job. He serves a four-year term, same as the President. When a challenger captures the White House, all U.S. Attorneys are terminated.
When the press conference is over and the CNN talking heads begin babbling, I switch channels but find nothing of interest. Armed with the remote, I have total control over the television. I am adjusting to freedom with remarkable ease. I can sleep until I wake up. I can choose what I wear, though the choices so far are limited. Most important, there is no cell mate, no one else to contend with in a ten-by-twelve cube. I've measured the motel room twice - approximately sixteen feet wide and thirty feet long, including the bathroom. It's a castle.
By mid-morning, we're on the road, going south now, on Interstate 79. Three hours later we arrive at the airport in Charleston, West Virginia, where we say farewell to Agent Chris Hanski. He wishes me well, and I thank him for his courtesies. Pat Surhoff and I board a commuter flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. I have no documentation, but the Marshals Service and the airline speak in code. I just follow Pat, and I have to admit I'm excited as I board the small plane.
The airport in Charlotte is a large, open, modern place, and I stand on a mezzanine for two hours and watch the people come and go. I am one of them, a free man, and I will soon have the ability to walk to the counter and buy a ticket going anywhere.
At 6:10, we board a nonstop flight to Denver. The code pulled off an upgrade, and Pat and I sit side by side in first class, compliments of the taxpayers. I have a beer and he has a ginger ale. Dinner is roasted chicken and gravy, and I suppose most of the passengers eat it for sustenance. For me, it's fine dining. I have a glass of Pinot Noir, my first sip of wine in many years.
Victor Westlake and his entourage left the press conference and drove four blocks to the downtown law office of Jimmy Lee Arnold. They presented themselves to the receptionist, who was expecting them. Within minutes, she led them down a narrow hall to a large conference room and offered coffee. They thanked her and declined.
Jimmy Lee was a fixture in the Roanoke criminal bar, a