113: Weidner sat in a metal chair bolted to the floor behind a matching table. His eyes darted around the room, his fingers fidgeted, tripping over one another, one hand on the table, the other on his lap.
Poole watched him through the one-way window. “Did he say anything when they picked him up?”
Warden Vina shook his head. “Didn’t put up any kind of fight, just surrendered. He had a bag packed, a little over two thousand in cash, and a bus ticket to Chicago. Ten more minutes, and he might have slipped out.”
“Mind if I talk to him?”
The warden shrugged. “He’s not talking to me. I gave it a go already. Be my guest.”
Captain Direnzo stood to Poole’s left. He felt the heat rising off the man.
“He’s all yours when I’m done,” Poole told him.
Direnzo grunted but said nothing.
Poole opened the metal door separating the two rooms and stepped into the interview space, closing the door behind him.
Weidner looked up, then back to his hand on the table.
Poole took the chair across from him. “Hello, Vincent. I’m Special Agent Frank Poole with the FBI. Sounds like you have had quite an eventful morning. Why don’t you start by telling me who Libby McInley is to you?”
Weidner’s fingers stopped tapping. “Lawyer. Sarah Werner. Right now.”
“You can most certainly go that route. I imagine you’ve worked in the system long enough to understand how this will play out if you do, though,” Poole said. “If you don’t help me, if you run interference with a lawyer, I can’t help you. That means we go full boat on all the charges—aiding and abetting, orchestrating a prison break, fleeing law enforcement . . . you’re looking at a lot of time. You answer a few questions, you help me, then I can help you.” Poole leaned in closer, across the table. “I want to be clear on something, Vincent. I’m not here for you. You’re a means to an end for me, that’s all. I’ve got no reason to be hard on you. On the other side of that glass, though, you’ve got the warden and your captain, neither of whom are happy with you. I leave you here with them, and they’ll make an example out of you. They’ll use you to prove a point. You help me, I’ll take you back with me to Chicago and we avoid all that. You were heading there anyway, right? Forget the bus. I’ve got a jet on the tarmac at Louis Armstrong.”
Weidner leaned forward. “Lawyer. Sarah Werner. Now.”
“Tell me about Anson Bishop. Why are you helping him?”
Weidner said nothing.
“Who was the woman you helped escape? Is she Bishop’s mother?”
Silence.
Poole would spend the next two hours in this room with Weidner.