The Racketeer

The Racketeer Page 17

Agent Hanski is waiting with a new player in my game - Pat Surhoff, U.S. Marshal. We make our introductions and gather around a small table not far down the hall from the warden's office. He, of course, would never be seen on the premises on a Sunday, and who could blame him?

Hanski whips out a document and slides it across. "Here's the indictment," he says. "Came down late Friday afternoon in Roanoke, still a secret, but it will be released to the press first thing in the morning." I hold it like a brick of gold and have trouble focusing on the words. United States of America versus Quinn Al Rucker. It's been stamped in the top right corner, with last Friday's date in blue ink.

"The Post said the grand jury meets in the morning," I manage to say, though it's obvious what's already happened.

"We're playing the press," Hanski says smugly. Smug, but a much nicer guy this time around. Our roles have changed dramatically. Once I had been a shifty-eyed con looking for a deal and probably scamming the system. Now, though, I'm the golden boy about to walk out of here and take some cash with me.

I shake my head and say, "I'm at a loss for words, guys. Help me here."

Hanski is ready to pounce. "Here's what we have in mind, Mr. Bannister."

"How about Mal now?" I ask.

"Great. I'm Chris and he's Pat."

"Got it."

"The Bureau of Prisons has just reassigned you to the medium-security joint at Fort Wayne, Indiana. Reason unknown, or not given. Some type of rule violation that pissed off the big guys. No visitors for six months. Solitary confinement. Anyone who's curious can find you online with the Inmate Locator service, but they'll soon hit a brick wall. After a couple of months in Fort Wayne, you'll be reassigned again. The goal is to keep you moving throughout the system and buried in it."

"I'm sure this will be quite easy for the bureau," I say, and they both laugh. Man, have I changed teams or what?

"In a few minutes, we'll do the handcuff and ankle-chain routine, for the last time, and walk you out of here, just like a normal transfer. You'll get in an unmarked van with Pat and another marshal, and they'll drive you west, headed for Fort Wayne. I'll follow. Sixty miles down the road, just this side of Morgantown, we'll stop at a motel where we have some rooms. You'll change clothes, have some lunch, and we'll talk about the future."

"In a few minutes?" I say, shocked.

"That's the plan. Is there anything in your cell that you cannot live without?"

"Yes. I have some personal stuff, paperwork and such."

"Okay. We'll get the prison to box up everything tomorrow and we'll get it to you. It's best if you don't go back there. If someone saw you gathering your things, they might ask questions. We don't want anyone here to know you're leaving until you're gone."

"Got it."

"No farewells and all that crap, okay?"

"Okay." For a second I think about my friends here at Frostburg, but quickly let it go. This day is coming for all of them too, and once you're free, you don't look back. I doubt seriously if friendships made in prison endure on the outside. And in my case, I will never be able to catch up with the old pals and reminisce. I am about to become another person.

"You have $78 in your prison account. We'll forward that to Fort Wayne, and it'll get lost in the system."

"Screwed once more by the federal government," I say, and again they think I'm funny.

"Any questions?" Hanski asks.

"Sure. How did you get him to confess? He's too smart for that."

"We were surprised, frankly. We used a couple of our veteran interrogators, and they have their methods. He mentioned a lawyer a couple of times but backed off. He wanted to talk, and he seemed overwhelmed by the fact that he'd been caught, not for the escape, but for the murder. He wanted to know how much we knew, so we kept talking. For ten hours. Through the night into the early morning. He didn't want to leave and go to jail, so he stayed in the room. Once he became convinced that we knew what we knew, he broke down. When we mentioned the possibility of his family being indicted, along with most of his gang, he wanted to cut a deal. He eventually gave us everything."

"And by everything you mean?"

"His story is basically what you told us. He bribed Judge Fawcett with $500,000 to save his nephew, and the judge screwed him. Kept the money and nailed the kid. In Quinn's world, that's a crime that cannot be forgiven and must be avenged. He stalked Judge Fawcett, trailed him to his cabin, broke in on the judge and his secretary, and got his revenge."

"How much of the money was left?"

"About half of it. Quinn claims he broke into the judge's apartment in Roanoke, went through everything, and couldn't find the money. He suspected it was being kept somewhere else, somewhere safer. That's why he followed Fawcett to the cabin. He overpowered the judge on the front porch and got inside. He wasn't sure the money was there but was determined to find its location. He did some bad things to the secretary and convinced Fawcett to find the money. Thus, the hidden safe. In Quinn's mind, the money belonged to him."

"And I guess he felt he had to kill them?"

"Oh sure. He couldn't leave two witnesses behind. There's no remorse, Mal. The judge had it coming; the secretary just got in the way. Now he's facing two counts of capital murder."

"So it's a death penalty case?"

"Most likely. We've never executed anyone for killing a federal judge, and we'd love to make Quinn Rucker our first example."

"Did he mention my name?" I ask, certain of the answer.

"Indeed he did. He strongly suspects you're our source, and he's probably plotting revenge. That's why we're here now, ready to go."

I want to leave, but not so fast. "Quinn knows about Rule 35; in fact every federal inmate knows a lot about the rule. You solve a crime on the outside, and you get your sentence commuted. Plus, he thinks I'm a brilliant lawyer. He and his family will know that I'm out, not in prison, not in Fort Wayne or any other facility."

"True, but let's keep them guessing. It's also important for your family and friends to believe you're still locked up."

"Are you worried about my family?" I ask.

Pat Surhoff finally speaks. "On some level, yes, and we can provide protection for them if you so choose. Doing so will obviously disrupt their lives."

"They'll never agree to it," I reply. "My father would throw a punch if you mentioned it to him. He's a retired state trooper who's certain he can take care of himself. My son has a new father and a new life." I cannot comprehend the phone call to Dionne to inform her that Bo might be in danger because of something I've done in prison. And there's a part of me that does not believe Quinn Rucker would harm an innocent boy.

"We can discuss it later, if you'd like," Surhoff says. "Let's do that. I'm having far too many random thoughts right now."

Hanski says, "Freedom awaits you, Mal."

"Let's get out of here." I follow them down a hallway and to another building where three COs and the captain are waiting. I'm handcuffed and shackled at the ankles, then escorted down a sidewalk to a waiting van. An uninformed bystander would think I'm being led to my execution. A marshal named Hitchcock is behind the wheel. Surhoff slides the door shut beside me and climbs into the front passenger seat. Away we go.

I refuse to look back for a parting shot of Frostburg. I have enough images to last for years. I watch the countryside pass by and cannot suppress a smile. A few minutes later, we pull in to the parking lot of a shopping center. Surhoff jumps out, opens the sliding door, reaches over, and unlocks the handcuffs. Then he frees my ankles. "Congratulations," he says warmly, and I decide that I like this guy. I hear the chains rattle for the last time and massage my wrists.

Soon, we accelerate onto Interstate 68 and head west. It's almost springtime, and the rolling hills of far western Maryland are showing signs of life. The first few moments of freedom are almost overwhelming. For five years I have dreamed of this day, and it is exhilarating. There are so many thoughts competing for attention. I can't wait to choose my own clothing, to put on a pair of jeans. I can't wait to buy a car and drive anywhere I want. I long for the feel of a woman's body and for the taste of a steak and a cold beer. I refuse to worry about the safety of my son and father. They will not be harmed.

The marshals want to talk, and so I listen. Pat Surhoff is saying, "Now, Mal, you are no longer in the custody of anyone. If you choose to enter the Witness Security Program, more commonly known as witness protection, we, the U.S. Marshals Service, will take care of you. We provide for your security, safety, and health. We will get you a new identity with authentic documentation. You will receive financial assistance for housing, living expenses, and medical care. We'll find you a job. Once you're up and running, we don't monitor your daily activities, but we're always close by if you need us."

He sounds as though he's reading from a brochure, but the words are music. Hitchcock chimes in, "We've had over eight thousand witnesses in the program, and not a single one has ever been harmed."

I ask the obvious question: "Where will I live?"

"It's a big country, Mal," Hitchcock replies. "We've relocated witnesses a hundred miles from their homes and two thousand miles away. Distance is not that crucial, but, generally speaking, the farther the better. You like warm weather or snow? Mountains and lakes or sun and beaches? Big cities or small cities? Small towns are problematic, and we recommend a place with a population of at least 100,000."

"It's easier to blend in," Surhoff adds.

"And I get to choose?" I ask.

"Within reason, yes," Hitchcock says.

"Let me think about it."

Which I do for the next ten miles or so, and not for the first time. I have a pretty good idea of where I'm going, and for what reasons. I glance over my shoulder and see a familiar vehicle. "I'm assuming that's the FBI right behind us."

"Yes, Agent Hanski and another guy," Surhoff says.

"How long will they follow us?"

"They'll be gone in a few days, I suppose," Surhoff says as he and Hitchcock exchange looks. They don't really know, and I'm not going to press them.

I ask, "Does the FBI routinely keep up with witnesses like me?"

Hitchcock replies, "It depends. Usually, when a witness enters witness protection, he has some unfinished business with the person or persons he snitched on. So the witness may have to go back to court to testify. In that case, the FBI wants to keep up with the witness, but they do it through us. Always through us. Over time, though, as the years go by, the FBI sort of forgets about the witnesses."

Pat changes the subject. "One of the first things you have to do is change your name, legally of course. We use a judge in Fairfax County, Northern Virginia, who keeps the files locked. It's pretty routine, but you need to select a new name. It's best if you keep the same initials, and keep it simple."

"For example?"

"Mike Barnes. Matt Booth. Mark Bridges. Mitch Baldwin."

"Sounds like a bunch of white fraternity brothers."

"Yes, it does. But so does Malcolm Bannister."

"Thanks."

We ponder my new name for a few miles. Surhoff opens a laptop and pecks away. He says, "In this country, what's the most common surname beginning with the letter B?"

"Baker," Hitchcock guesses.

"That's number two."

"Bailey," I guess.

"That's number three. Bell is number four. Brooks number five. The winner is Brown, with twice as many customers as Baker in second place."

"One of my favorite African-American writers is James Baldwin," I say. "I'll take it."

"Okay," Surhoff says, tapping keys. "First name?"

"How about Max?"

Hitchcock nods his approval as Surhoff enters the name Max. "I like it," Hitchcock says, as if sniffing a fine wine. Surhoff looks up and says, "There are about twenty-five Max Baldwins in the United States, so it works fine. A good solid name, not too common, not too exotic or weird. I like it. Let's dress it up a bit. Middle name? What works here, Max?"

Nothing works in the middle with Max in front. Then I think of Mr. Reed and Mr. Copeland, my two former partners, and their tiny shop on Braddock Street in Winchester. Copeland & Reed, Attorneys and Counselors at Law. In their honor, I select Reed.

"Max Reed Baldwin," Surhoff says. "It'll work. Now, a little suffix to bring it to an end, Max? Junior, the Third, the Fourth. Shouldn't get too fancy here."

Hitchcock is shaking his head no. "Leave it alone," he says almost under his breath.

"I agree," I say. "Nothing on the end."

"Great. So we have a name. Max R. Baldwin, right Max?"

"I guess. Let me mull it over for an hour or so. I need to get used to it."

"Of course."

As unsettling as it is, selecting a new name to be used for the rest of my life will be one of my easier decisions. Quite soon I'll be confronted with choices far more difficult - eyes, nose, lips, chin, home, job, family history, and what kind of fictional childhood did I have? Where did I go to college and what did I study? Why am I single and have I been married? Children?

My mind is spinning.