We’re on Interstate 68, zipping through Hagerstown, and the feeling of freedom is exhilarating. In spite of the handcuffs, I can almost taste the life out there. I watch the traffic and dream of owning and driving a car again, of going anywhere. I see fast-food restaurants at the interchanges and I salivate at the thought of a burger and fries. I see a couple walking hand in hand into a store, and I can almost feel the touch of her flesh. A beer sign in the window of a bar makes me thirsty. A billboard advertising Caribbean cruises takes me to another world. I feel as if I’ve been locked up for a century.
We turn south on Interstate 70 and are soon in the Washington-Baltimore sprawl. Three hours after we leave Frostburg, we arrive in the basement of the federal courthouse in downtown D.C. Inside the building, the handcuffs are removed; I proceed with one marshal in front of me, the other behind.
The meeting takes place in the chambers of Judge Slater, who’s as prickly as ever and seems to have aged twenty years in the past five. He considers me a criminal and barely acknowledges my presence. Fine, I don’t care. It is evident that a lot of conversations have taken place between his office, the U.S. Attorney’sOffice, the FBI, and the Attorney General of the United States. At one point, I count eleven people around the table. The Rule 35 motion, with the attached agreement, has increased in size and runs for twenty-two pages. I have read every word five times. I even demanded some of my own language.
The agreement, in short, gives me everything I want. Freedom, a new identity, government protection, and the reward money of $150,000.
After the usual throat clearing, Judge Slater takes charge. “We will now go on the record,” he says, and his court reporter begins her stenography. “Even though this is a confidential matter and the court’s order will be sealed, I want a record of this hearing.” A pause as he shuffles papers. “This is a motion by the United States for Rule 35 relief. Bannister, have you read this entire motion, agreement, and proposed order?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“And I believe you are an attorney, or, shall I say, were an attorney.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Does the motion, agreement, and order meet your approval?”
Damn right it does, old boy. “Yes sir.”
He goes around the table and asks the same questions. It’s all a formality because everyone has already agreed. And, most important, the Attorney General has signed the agreement.
Slater looks at me and says, “You understand, Mr. Bannister, that if the name you provide does not lead to an indictment, then the agreement is null and void after twelve months, your sentence will not be commuted, and you will serve the remaining time in full?”
“Yes sir.”
“And that until there is an indictment you will remain in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons?”
“Yes sir.”
After more discussion about the terms of the agreement,Judge Slater signs the order and the hearing is over. He does not say farewell and I do not curse him the way I’d like to. Again, it’s a miracle that more federal judges are not whacked.
I am swarmed by an entourage and led down the stairs to a room where more dark suits are waiting. A video camera has been set up for my benefit, and Mr. Victor Westlake is pacing. I am asked to sit at the end of the table, face the camera, and offered something to drink. It’s a very nervous bunch, desperate to hear me utter the name.
CHAPTER 12
H is name is Quinn Rucker, black male, aged thirty-eight, from Southwest D.C., convicted two years ago of distributing narcotics and sentenced to seven years. I met him at Frostburg. He walked away about three months ago and has not been seen since. He comes from a large family of drug dealers who’ve been active and successful for many years. These are not street dealers by any means. They are businessmen with contacts up and down the East
We turn south on Interstate 70 and are soon in the Washington-Baltimore sprawl. Three hours after we leave Frostburg, we arrive in the basement of the federal courthouse in downtown D.C. Inside the building, the handcuffs are removed; I proceed with one marshal in front of me, the other behind.
The meeting takes place in the chambers of Judge Slater, who’s as prickly as ever and seems to have aged twenty years in the past five. He considers me a criminal and barely acknowledges my presence. Fine, I don’t care. It is evident that a lot of conversations have taken place between his office, the U.S. Attorney’sOffice, the FBI, and the Attorney General of the United States. At one point, I count eleven people around the table. The Rule 35 motion, with the attached agreement, has increased in size and runs for twenty-two pages. I have read every word five times. I even demanded some of my own language.
The agreement, in short, gives me everything I want. Freedom, a new identity, government protection, and the reward money of $150,000.
After the usual throat clearing, Judge Slater takes charge. “We will now go on the record,” he says, and his court reporter begins her stenography. “Even though this is a confidential matter and the court’s order will be sealed, I want a record of this hearing.” A pause as he shuffles papers. “This is a motion by the United States for Rule 35 relief. Bannister, have you read this entire motion, agreement, and proposed order?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“And I believe you are an attorney, or, shall I say, were an attorney.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Does the motion, agreement, and order meet your approval?”
Damn right it does, old boy. “Yes sir.”
He goes around the table and asks the same questions. It’s all a formality because everyone has already agreed. And, most important, the Attorney General has signed the agreement.
Slater looks at me and says, “You understand, Mr. Bannister, that if the name you provide does not lead to an indictment, then the agreement is null and void after twelve months, your sentence will not be commuted, and you will serve the remaining time in full?”
“Yes sir.”
“And that until there is an indictment you will remain in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons?”
“Yes sir.”
After more discussion about the terms of the agreement,Judge Slater signs the order and the hearing is over. He does not say farewell and I do not curse him the way I’d like to. Again, it’s a miracle that more federal judges are not whacked.
I am swarmed by an entourage and led down the stairs to a room where more dark suits are waiting. A video camera has been set up for my benefit, and Mr. Victor Westlake is pacing. I am asked to sit at the end of the table, face the camera, and offered something to drink. It’s a very nervous bunch, desperate to hear me utter the name.
CHAPTER 12
H is name is Quinn Rucker, black male, aged thirty-eight, from Southwest D.C., convicted two years ago of distributing narcotics and sentenced to seven years. I met him at Frostburg. He walked away about three months ago and has not been seen since. He comes from a large family of drug dealers who’ve been active and successful for many years. These are not street dealers by any means. They are businessmen with contacts up and down the East
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