The Brethren (5 page)

“ ‘Please write me back immediately and confirm. Take care, my Ricky. Love, Quince.’ ”

“I think I’m gonna vomit,” Spicer said, but he wasn’t convincing. There was too much to do.

“Let’s bust him,” Beech said. The others quickly agreed.

“How much?” asked Yarber.

“At least a hundred thousand,” said Spicer. “His family has owned banks for two generations. We know his father is still active in the business, so you have to figure the old man might go nuts if his boy gets outed. Quince can’t afford to get booted from the family gravy train, so he’ll pay whatever we demand. It’s a perfect situation.”

Beech was already taking notes. So was Yarber. Spicer began pacing around the small room like a bear stalking prey. The ideas came slowly, the language, the opinions, the strategy, but before long the letter took shape.

In rough draft, Beech read it: “ ‘Dear Quince: So nice to get your letter of January fourteenth. I’m so happy you got the gay cruise booked. It sounds delightful. One problem, though. I won’t be able to make it, and there are a couple of reasons for this. One is that I won’t be released for a few more years. I’m in a prison, not a drug treatment clinic. And I’m not gay, far from it. I have a wife and two kids, and right now they’re having a difficult time financially because I’m sitting here in prison, unable to support them. That’s where you come in, Quince. I need some of your money. I want a hundred thousand dollars. We can call it hush money. You send it, and I’ll forget the Ricky business and the gay cruise and no one in Bakers, Iowa, will ever know anything about it. Your wife and your children and your father and the rest of your rich family will never know about Ricky. If you don’t send
the money, then I’ll flood your little town with copies of our letters.

‘It’s called extortion, Quince, and you’re caught. It’s cruel and mean and criminal, and I don’t care. I need money, and you have it.’ ”

Beech stopped and looked around the room for approval.

“It’s beautiful,” said Spicer, already spending the loot.

“It’s nasty,” said Yarber. “But what if he kills himself?”

“That’s a long shot,” said Beech.

They read the letter again, then debated whether the timing was right. They did not mention the illegality of their scam, or the punishment if they got caught. Those discussions had been laid to rest months earlier when Joe Roy Spicer had convinced the other two to join him. The risks were insignificant when weighed against the potential returns. The Quinces who got themselves snared were not likely to run to the police and complain of extortion.

But they hadn’t busted anyone yet. They were corresponding with a dozen or so potential victims, all middle-aged men who’d made the mistake of answering this simple ad:

SWM in 20’s looking for kind and discreet gentleman in 40’s or 50’s to pen pal with.

One little personal in small print in the back of a gay magazine had yielded sixty responses, and Spicer
had the chore of sifting through the rubbish and identifying rich targets. At first he’d found the work disgusting, then he became amused by it. Now it was a business because they were about to extort a hundred thousand bucks from a perfectly innocent man.

Their lawyer would take a third, the usual cut but a frustrating percentage nonetheless. They had no choice. He was a critical player in their crimes.

They worked on the letter to Quince for an hour, then agreed to sleep on it and do a final draft the next day. There was another letter from a man using the pseudonym of Hoover. It was his second, written to Percy, and rambled on for four paragraphs about bird-watching. Yarber would be forced to study birds before writing back as Percy and professing a great interest in the subject. Evidently, Hoover was afraid of his shadow. He revealed nothing personal, and there was no indication of money.

Give him some more rope, the Brethren decided. Talk about birds, then try to nudge him to the subject of physical companionship. If Hoover didn’t take the hint, and if he didn’t reveal something about his financial situation, then they’d drop him.

Within the Bureau of Prisons, Trumble was officially referred to as a camp. Such a designation meant there were no fences around the grounds, no razor wire, no watchtowers, no guards with rifles waiting to nail escapees. A camp meant minimum security, so that any inmate could simply walk away if he chose. There were a thousand at Trumble, but few walked away.

It was nicer than most public schools. Air-conditioned dorms, clean cafeteria serving three squares a day, a weight room, billiards, cards, racquetball, basketball, volleyball, jogging track, library, chapel, ministers on duty, counselors, caseworkers, unlimited visiting hours.

Trumble was as good as it could get for prisoners, all of whom were classified as low risk. Eighty percent were there for drug crimes. About forty had robbed banks without hurting or really scaring anyone. The rest were white-collar types whose crimes ranged from small-time scams to Dr. Floyd, a surgeon whose office had bilked Medicare out of $6 million over two decades.

Violence was not tolerated at Trumble. Threats were rare. There were plenty of rules and the administration had little trouble enforcing them. If you screwed up, they sent you away, to a medium-security prison, one with razor wire and rough guards.

Trumble’s prisoners were content to behave themselves and count their days, the federal way.

Pursuing serious criminal activity on the inside was unheard of, until the arrival of Joe Roy Spicer. Before his fall, Spicer had heard stories about the Angola scam, named for the infamous Louisiana state penitentiary. Some inmates there had perfected the gay-extortion scheme, and before they were caught they had fleeced their victims of $700,000.

Spicer was from a rural county near the Louisiana line, and the Angola scam was a notorious affair in his part of the state. He never dreamed he’d copy it. But he woke up one morning in a federal pen, and
decided to shaft every living soul he could get close enough to.

He walked the track every day at 1 P.M.., usually alone, always with a pack of Marlboros. He hadn’t smoked for ten years before his incarceration; now he was up to two packs a day. So he walked to negate the damage to his lungs. In thirty-four months he’d walked 1,242 miles. And he’d lost twenty pounds, though probably not from exercise, as he liked to claim. The prohibition against beer was more responsible for the weight loss.

Thirty-four months of walking and smoking, twenty-one months to go.

Ninety thousand dollars of the stolen bingo money was literally buried in his backyard, a half a mile behind his house next to a toolshed—entombed in a homemade concrete vault his wife knew nothing about. She’d helped him spend the rest of the loot, $180,000 altogether, though the feds had traced only half of it. They’d bought Cadillacs and flown to Las Vegas, first class out of New Orleans, and they’d been driven around by casino limos and put up in suites.

If he had any dreams left, one was to be a professional gambler, headquartered out of Vegas but known and feared by casinos everywhere. Blackjack was his game, and though he’d lost a ton, he was still convinced he could beat any house. There were casinos in the Caribbean he’d never seen. Asia was heating up. He’d travel the world, first class, with or without his wife, stay in fancy suites, order room service, and terrorize any blackjack dealer dumb enough to deal him cards.

He’d take the $90,000 from his backyard, add it to his share of the Angola scam, and move to Vegas. With or without her. She hadn’t been to Trumble in four months, although she used to come every three weeks. He had nightmares of her plowing up the backyard looking for his buried treasure. He was almost convinced she didn’t know about the money, but there was room for doubt. He’d been drinking two nights before being shipped off to prison, and had said something about the $90,000. He couldn’t remember his exact words. Try as he might, he simply could not recall what he’d told her.

He lit another Marlboro at mile one. Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Rita Spicer was an attractive woman, a little chunky in places but nothing $90,000 couldn’t hide. What if she and a new squeeze had found the money and were already spending it? One of Joe Roy’s worst recurring nightmares was a scene from a bad movie—Rita and some unknown male with shovels digging like idiots in the rain. Why the rain, he didn’t know. But it was always at night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the lightning would flash and he would see them slogging their way through the backyard, each time getting nearer and nearer to the toolshed.

In one dream the new mystery boyfriend was on a bulldozer, pushing piles of dirt all over the Spicer farm while Rita stood nearby, pointing here and there with her shovel.

Joe Roy craved the money. He could feel the cash in his hands. He would steal and extort all he could while he counted his days at Trumble, then he would
rescue his buried loot and head for Vegas. No one in his hometown would have the pleasure of pointing and whispering and saying, “There’s old Joe Roy. Guess he’s out of the pen now.” No sir.

He’d be living the high life. With or without her.

FOUR

T
eddy looked at his pill bottles lined along the edge of his table, like little executioners ready to take away his misery. York was seated across from him, reading from his notes.

York said, “He was on the phone until three this morning, talking to friends in Arizona.”

“Who?”

“Bobby Lander, Jim Gallison, Richard Hassel, the usual gang. His money people.”

“Dale Winer?”

“Yes, him too,” York said, amazed at Teddy’s recall. Teddy had his eyes closed now, and was rubbing his temples. Somewhere between them, somewhere deep in his brain, he knew the names of Lake’s friends, his contributors, his confidants, his poll workers, and his old high school teachers. All of it neatly tucked away, ready to be used if necessary.

“Anything unusual?”

“No, not really. Just the typical questions you’d expect from a man contemplating such an unexpected
move. His friends were surprised, even shocked, and somewhat reluctant, but they’ll come around.”

“Did they ask about money?”

“Of course. He was vague, said it would not be a problem, though. They are skeptical.”

“Did he keep our secrets?”

“He certainly did.”

“Was he worried about us listening?”

“I don’t think so. He made eleven calls from his office and eight from his home. None from his cell phones.”

“Faxes? E-mail?”

“None. He spent two hours with Schiara, his—”

“Chief of staff.”

“Right. They basically planned the campaign. Schiara wants to run it. They like Nance of Michigan as VP.”

“Not a bad choice.”

“He looks fine. We’re already checking him. Had a divorce when he was twenty-three, but that was thirty years ago.”

“Not a problem. Is Lake ready to commit?”

“Oh yes. He’s a politician, isn’t he? He’s been promised the keys to the kingdom. He’s already writing speeches.”

Teddy removed a pill from a bottle and swallowed it without the aid of anything liquid. He frowned as if it was bitter. He squeezed the wrinkles in his forehead and said, “York, tell me we’re not missing anything on this guy. No skeletons.”

“No skeletons, Chief. We’ve examined his dirty
underwear for six months. There’s nothing that can hurt us.”

“He’s not going to marry some fool, is he?”

“No. He dates several women, but nothing serious.”

“No sex with his interns?”

“None. He’s clean.”

They were repeating a dialogue they’d had many times. Once more wouldn’t hurt.

“No shady financial deals from another lifetime?”

“This is his life, Chief. There’s nothing back there.”

“Booze, drugs, prescription pills, gambling on the Internet?”

“No sir. He’s very clean, sober, straight, bright, pretty remarkable.”

“Let’s talk to him.”

Aaron Lake was once again escorted to the same room deep inside Langley, this time with three handsome young men guarding him as if danger lurked at every corner. He walked even quicker than the day before, his head even taller, his back without the slightest curve. His stature was rising by the hour.

Once again he said hello to Teddy and shook his calloused hand, then followed the quilt-laden wheelchair into the bunker and sat across the table. Pleasantries were exchanged. York watched from a room down the hall where three monitors hooked to hidden cameras relayed every word, every movement. Next to York were two men who spent their time studying tapes of people as they talked and breathed and moved their hands and eyes and heads and feet, in an effort to determine what the speakers really meant.

“Did you sleep much last night?” Teddy asked, managing a smile.

“Yes, actually,” Lake lied.

“Good. I take it you’re willing to accept our deal.”

“Deal? I didn’t know it was exactly a deal.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Lake, it’s exactly a deal. We promise to get you elected, and you promise to double defense spending and get ready for the Russians.”

“Then you have a deal.”

“That’s good, Mr. Lake. I’m very pleased. You’ll make an excellent candidate and a fine President.”

The words rang through Lake’s ears, and he couldn’t believe them. President Lake. President Aaron Lake. He’d paced the floor until five that morning trying to convince himself that the White House was being offered to him. It seemed too easy.

And as hard as he tried, he couldn’t ignore the trappings. The Oval Office. All those jets and helicopters. The world to be traveled. A hundred aides at his beck and call. State dinners with the most powerful people in the world.

And, above all, a place in history.

Oh yes, Teddy had himself a deal.

“Let’s talk about the campaign itself,” Teddy said. “I think you should announce two days after New Hampshire. Let the dust settle. Let the winners get their fifteen minutes and let the losers sling more mud, then announce.”

“That’s pretty fast,” Lake said.

“We don’t have a lot of time. We ignore New Hampshire and get ready for Arizona and Michigan on February twenty-second. It’s imperative that you
win those two states. When you do, you establish yourself as a serious candidate, and you’re set for the month of March.”