The Racketeer by John Grisham Read Free Book Online

a mile without collapsing. And they were the good guys.
    When we arrived at the jail, there was a photographer from the local newspaper. My goons walked me slowly inside, making sure I would be well photographed. Their version of the perp walk.
    I would soon learn that another team of government thugs had raided the offices of Copeland, Reed & Bannister at about the same time I was sitting down for lunch with my fellow Civic Club members. With brilliant forethought and meticulous planning, the joint strike force waited until the noon hour when the only person in the office was poor Mrs. Henderson. She reported that they stormed through the front door with guns drawn, yelling,cursing, threatening. They tossed a search warrant on her desk, made her sit in a chair by the window, promised to arrest her if she did little more than breathe, then proceeded to ransack our modest suite of offices. They hauled away all of the computers, printers, and several dozen boxes of files. At some point, Mr. Copeland returned from lunch. When he protested, a gun was aimed at him, and he took a seat beside a weeping Mrs. Henderson.
    My arrest was certainly a surprise. I had been dealing with the FBI for over a year. I had hired a lawyer and we had done everything possible to cooperate. I had passed two polygraph examinations administered by the FBI’s own experts. We had turned over all of the paperwork that I, as a lawyer, could ethically show anyone. I had kept a lot of this from Dionne, but she knew I was worried sick. I battled insomnia. I struggled to eat when I had no appetite. Finally, after almost twelve months of my living in fear and dreading the knock on the door, the FBI informed my lawyer that the government no longer had any interest in me.
    The government lied, and not for the first or last time.
    Inside the jail, a place I visited at least twice a week, there was yet another squad of agents. They wore navy parkas with “FBI” stamped in bold yellow lettering across the backs, and they buzzed around with great purpose, though I could not tell exactly what they were doing. The local cops, many of whom I knew well, backed away and looked at me with confusion and pity.
    Was it really necessary to send two dozen federal agents to arrest me and confiscate my files? I had just walked from my office to the George Washington Hotel. Any half-assed cop on his lunch break could have stopped me and made the arrest. But that would take the joy out of what these vastly important people did for a living.
    They led me to a small room, sat me at a table, removed the handcuffs, and told me to wait. A few minutes later, a man in a dark suit entered the room and said, “I’m Special Agent Don Connor, FBI.”
    “A real pleasure,” I said.
    He dropped some papers on the table in front of me and said, “This is the warrant for your arrest.” Then he dropped a thick bunch of stapled papers. “And this is the indictment. I’ll give you a few minutes to read it.”
    With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him as hard as possible. It was a thick metal door, and it crashed and vibrated and the sound rattled around the room for a few seconds.
    A sound I will never forget.

CHAPTER 6
    T hree days after my first meeting with Warden Wade, I am summoned back to his office. When I walk in, he is alone, on the phone, engaged in an important conversation. I stand awkwardly by the door, waiting. When he finishes his end of the chat, with a rude “That’ll do,” he gets to his feet and says, “Follow me.” We walk through a side door into an adjacent conference room painted in the typical government pale green and equipped with far more metal chairs than could ever be used.
    An audit last year revealed that the Bureau of Prisons had purchased, for “administrative use,” four thousand chairs at $800 per chair. The same manufacturer sold the same chair at wholesale for $79. I shouldn’t care anymore, but working for thirty