The Racketeer

We spend the next two days running errands and getting Max firmly established. I write my first check to a car-leasing agency and drive away in a used Audi A4 convertible, mine for the next twelve months at $400 a pop and fully insured. Now that I’m mobile, and now that Pat and I are getting on each other’s nerves, he starts talking about his exit. I’m ready for the independence and he’s ready to go home.

I visit Gretchen again to check on the bank’s wiring instructions and explain to her that a substantial sum of money is on the way. Pat clears things with his higher-ups, and the reward money is moved from some buried account to SunCoast. I assume that everybody involved in the wire transfer invokes all the standard precautions.

I have no way of knowing the wire is being watched.





CHAPTER 22




Dusty Shiver’s motion to suppress the confession was not at all unexpected. It was lengthy, well written, well reasoned, and backed up by a thirty-page affidavit signed by Quinn Rucker in which he fully recanted his confession. Three days after it was filed, Victor Westlake and two of his agents met with Stanley Mumphrey and two of his assistants. Their goal was to plow through the motion and prepare responses to it. Neither Mumphrey nor anyone else in his office was aware of the interrogation tactics used by Agents Pankovits and Delocke, nor did they know that Westlake and four of his men had watched by closed circuit the ten-hour marathon and had a tape of it. This information would never be revealed to the U.S. Attorney; thus, it would never be known to the defense, the judge, or anyone else.

Stanley had been fully briefed by his lieutenants and took control of the meeting. He began by saying, “The first and most important issue is the allegation that the defendant wanted to talk to a lawyer.”

Westlake nodded to an agent who whipped out some papers. Westlake said, “We have here two affidavits from Agents Pankovits and Delocke, our two interrogators, in which they respond to the allegations. As you will see, they say that the defendant mentioned a lawyer on a couple of occasions but never specifically demanded one. He never stopped the interrogation. He wanted to talk.”

Stanley and his men scanned the affidavits. After a few minutes, Stanley said, “Okay, point number two. The defendant claims he was repeatedly threatened with the death penalty by both agents. If true, this of course would be highly improper and would probably kill the confession.”

Westlake replied as he shook his head. “Look at the bottom of page seven, both affidavits. The agents state, under oath, that they made no threats whatsoever. These are very skilled interrogators, Stan, and they know the rules as well as anybody.”

Stanley and his men flipped to page seven and read the text. Perfect. Whatever Quinn claimed in his affidavit, there were two FBI agents willing to tell what really happened. Stanley said, “Looks good. The third point is that the agents promised the defendant he would not be put on trial for capital murder.”

“Page nine,” Westlake said. “Our agents know they do not have the authority to make deals. Only the U.S. Attorney can do that. Frankly, I find such an allegation ludicrous. Rucker is a career thug. He should know that prosecutors make deals, not cops.”

“I agree,” Stanley said quickly. “The next allegation is that the FBI agents threatened to prosecute other members of Rucker’s family.”

“Don’t they always say that, Stan? They give a confession, free and voluntarily, then can’t wait to tear it up and say they were threatened. You’ve seen this many times.” Of course Stan had, though he really had not. Westlake went on, “Though I must say it wouldn’t be a bad idea to round up all the Ruckers and give ’em the needle.”

Westlake’s men laughed. Stanley’s men laughed. A regular party.

“What about the allegation that the interrogators were abusive and pushed the suspect past the point of exhaustion?”

“Here’s the truth, Stan,” Westlake replied. “The agents repeatedly asked Rucker if he wanted to stop and continue later. He said no because he did not want to spend the night in the county jail. We checked and the jail was packed, badly overcrowded. They informed Rucker of this, and he didn’t want to go there.”

This made perfect sense to Stanley. He said, “Okay, the next three items need to be addressed, but I don’t think we’ll say much about them in our response. There is the allegation that the FBI agents lied about having a ballistics report that linked the murders to the Smith amp; Wesson handgun confiscated from the defendant. Unfortunately, as we now know, the ballistics excluded this weapon.”

“Lying is permissible, especially in a high-level interrogation such as this, Stanley,” Westlake said, much like a wise old professor.

“Got that, but just to satisfy my curiosity-did your agents actually lie about this?”

“Of course not. No, definitely not. Page twelve of their affidavits.”

“Didn’t think so. What about this next allegation-that your agents lied about the existence of a crime scene boot print that matched some boots taken from the defendant?”

“Not true, Stan. The imagination of a desperate lawyer and his guilty client.”

“Do you have a boot print?”

Westlake glanced at one of his agents, as though there just might be a boot print that he had somehow forgotten. The agent shook his head. “No,” Westlake admitted. “There’s no boot print.”

“And next we have the allegation that your agents lied about a couple of eyewitnesses. The first supposedly saw the defendant in the town of Ripplemead about the time of the killings. Any truth to this?”

Westlake shifted his weight from one ass cheek to the other and offered a condescending smile. “Stan, look, I’m not sure you appreciate what it takes to break down a guilty suspect. There are tricks, okay, and-”

“I get it.”

“And you have to instill fear, to make the suspect think you have a lot more proof than maybe you actually have.”

“I’ve seen no report from such a witness.”

“And you will not. He doesn’t exist.”

“We’re on the same side, here, Vic. I just need to know the truth so we can respond to the motion to suppress, understand?”

“I understand.”

“And the second witness, the one at the country store near the cabin. He doesn’t exist either, right?”

“Right.”

“Did the agents use any other tricks that I don’t know about?”

“No,” Westlake said, but no one in the room believed him.

“So, to summarize our case against Quinn Rucker, we have no eyewitnesses, no ballistics, no boot print, no fingerprints, no physical evidence of any kind, correct?”

Westlake nodded slowly but said nothing.

“We have a defendant who was in the Roanoke area after the murders, but no proof he was here beforehand, right?”

More nodding.

“And our defendant was caught with more cash than one would normally carry around, substantially more, I would say.”

Westlake agreed.

“But then Mr. Rucker is a self-confessed drug runner from a family notorious for trafficking, so cash would not be a problem.” Stanley shoved his legal pad away and rubbed his temples. “Gentlemen, we have a confession and nothing else. If we lose the confession, then Mr. Rucker walks and there’s no trial.”

“You can’t lose the confession, Stan,” Westlake said. “It’s unthinkable.”

“I have no plans to lose it, but I can see the judge taking a dim view of the interrogation. The length of it bothers me. Ten hours throughout the night. An obviously fatigued suspect who’s a seasoned crook and would probably want to see a lawyer. Two veteran interrogators who know all the tricks. This might be a close call.”

Westlake listened with a smile and after a long pause said, “Let’s not forget our star witness, Stan. Malcolm Bannister will testify that Quinn Rucker talked repeatedly of murdering Judge Fawcett. He wanted revenge, and he wanted his money back.”

“True, and his testimony, plus the confession, will get a conviction. But standing alone, his testimony is not enough.”

“You don’t sound too confident, Stan.”

“Quite the contrary. This is the murder of a federal judge. I cannot imagine another federal judge showing any sympathy for Quinn Rucker. We’ll have the confession, and we have Malcolm Bannister. We’ll get a conviction.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“By the way, what’s up with our boy Bannister?”

“Safe and sound, buried deep by the U.S. Marshals.”

“Where is he?”

“Sorry, Stan. Some things we cannot talk about. But have no worries. He’ll be here when we need him.”





CHAPTER 23




Pat Surhoff’s replacement is Diana Tyler. I meet them for lunch after a long morning at the hospital, where I was examined and was told to return in a month. Ms. Tyler is a tall, pretty woman of about fifty, with a short haircut, little makeup, a navy blazer, and no wedding band. She’s pleasant enough and over salads gives me her spiel. She lives “in the area” and works with a few others who share my situation. She is available 24/7 and would like to have a chat by phone at least once a week. She understands what I’m going through and says it’s natural to keep looking over my shoulder. With time, though, those fears will go away, and my life will become quite normal. If I leave town, and they stress this is something I can now do whenever I want, she would like the details of my trip in advance. They want to keep close tabs on me until long after I testify against Quinn Rucker, and they persist in painting the picture of a safe and pleasant future that I will know one day when all of the initial hurdles have been cleared.

They mention the two job interviews, and I throw a curve by explaining I’m not ready for employment. With cash in the bank and unrestrained freedom, I’m just not ready to start a new career. I want to travel some, take long drives, and maybe go to Europe. Traveling is fine, they agree, but the cover works best if I have a real job. We decide to talk about it later. This leads to a conversation about a passport and an updated driver’s license. Another week and my face should be ready to be photographed, and Diana promises to arrange the documentation.

Over coffee, I give Pat a letter to my father. The return address is the federal correctional facility in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He will send it to the prison there, and someone will mail it to Henry Bannister in Winchester, Virginia. In the letter I explain to old Henry that I screwed up at Frostburg and have been busted back to a regular prison. I am in solitary confinement and can have no visitors for at least three months. I ask him to notify my sister, Ruby, in California and my brother, Marcus, in D.C. I tell him not to worry; I’m fine and I have a plan to work my way back to Frostburg.

Pat and I say our farewells. I thank him for his courtesies and professionalism, and he wishes me well. He assures me my new life will be rewarding and secure. I’m not sure I believe this, because I’m still looking over my shoulder. I strongly suspect the FBI will monitor me for some time, at least until the day when Quinn Rucker is convicted and sent away.

The truth is I cannot afford to trust anyone, including Pat Surhoff, Diana Tyler, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the FBI. There are a lot of shadows back there, not to mention the bad guys. If the government wants to watch me, there’s little I can do. They can obtain court orders to snoop into my bank account, to listen to my phone calls, to monitor my credit card activity, and to watch everything I do online. I anticipate all of the above, and my challenge in the near future is to deceive them without letting them know they are being deceived. Taking one of the two jobs would only allow them another opportunity to spy.

During the afternoon, I open another checking account at Atlantic Trust and move $50,000 from the SunCoast account. Then I do the same thing at a third bank, Jacksonville Savings. In a day or two, once the checks have cleared, I will begin withdrawing cash.

As I putter around the neighborhood in my little Audi, I spend as much time looking in the mirror as I do watching the road. It’s already a habit. When I walk the beach, I check out every face I see. When I walk into a store, I immediately find cover and watch the door I just came through. I never eat in the same restaurant twice, and I always find a table with a view of the parking lot. I use the cell phone only for routine matters, and I assume someone is listening. I pay cash for a laptop, set up three Gmail accounts, and do my browsing in Internet cafes using their servers. I begin experimenting with prepaid credit cards I buy at a Walgreens pharmacy. I install two hidden cameras in my condo, just in case someone drops in while I’m away.

Paranoia is the key here. I convince myself someone is always watching and listening, and as the days pass, I fall deeper into my own little world of deception. I call Diana every other day with the latest news in my increasingly mundane life, and she gives no hint of being suspicious. But then, she would not.

The lawyer’s name is Murray Huggins, and his small Yellow Pages ad announces specialties in just about everything. Divorce, real estate, bankruptcy, criminal matters, and so forth, pretty much the same ham-and-egg routine we followed at dear old Copeland, Reed amp; Bannister. His office is not far from my condo, and one look suggests the laid-back beach practice of a guy who comes in at nine and is on the golf course by three. During our first appointment, Murray tells me his life story. He had great success in a big law firm in Tampa but burned out at the age of fifty and tried retirement. He moved to Atlantic Beach, got a divorce, got bored, and decided to hang out his shingle. He’s in his sixties now, happy in his little office, where he puts in a few hours here and there and chooses his clients carefully.

We go through my biography, and I, for the most part, stick to the script. A couple of ex-wives in Seattle and so forth. I add my own new wrinkle of being a fledgling screenwriter who is polishing up my first script. With a lucky break here and there, the script has been optioned by a small production company that does documentaries. For various business reasons, I need to establish a small front in Florida.

For $2,500, Murray can build a few firewalls. He’ll set up an LLC-limited liability company-in Florida, with M. R. Baldwin as the sole owner. The LLC will then form a corporation in Delaware with Murray as the sole incorporator and me as the sole owner. The registered address will be his office, and my name will appear in none of the corporate documents. He says, “I do this all the time. Florida attracts a lot of folks who are trying to start over.” If you say so, Murray.

I could do this myself online, but it’s safer to route it through a lawyer. The confidentiality is important. I can pay Murray to do things the shadows will never suspect and be unable to trace. With his seasoned guidance, Skelter Films comes to life.



Two and a half months after the arrest of Quinn Rucker, and two weeks after I move into my beachfront condo, I am informed over coffee one morning by Diana that the Feds would like to have a meeting. There are several reasons for this, the most important being their desire to update me on their case and talk about the trial. They want to plan my testimony. I am certain they also want to get a good look at Max Baldwin, who, by the way, is an improvement over Malcolm Bannister.

The swelling is gone. The nose and chin are a bit sharper. The eyes look much younger, and the round red tortoiseshell glasses give the look of a pretty cool, cerebral documentary filmmaker. I shave my face once a week so there is always some stubble, with just a touch of gray mixed in. The slick scalp requires a razor every other day. My cheeks are flatter, primarily because I ate little during my recovery and I’ve lost weight. I plan to keep it off. All in all, I look nothing like my former self, and while this is often unsettling, it is also comforting.

The suggestion is that I return to Roanoke to meet with Stanley Mumphrey and his gang, but I flatly say no. Diana assures me that the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office do not know where I’m hiding, and I pretend to believe this. I do not want to meet them in Florida. After some haggling, we agree to meet at a hotel in Charleston, South Carolina. Diana books our tickets, and we fly out of Jacksonville, on the same flight but nowhere close to each other.

From the moment we walk into the lobby of the hotel, I know I’m being watched and probably photographed. The FBI can’t wait to see how I look. I catch a couple of quick glances but keep moving. After a sandwich in my room, I meet Diana in the hallway, and we walk to a suite two floors above us. It is well guarded by two thick boys in black suits who appear ready to begin firing away at the slightest provocation. As a marshal, Diana has no role in the prosecution; therefore, she remains outside with the two Dobermans while I enter and meet the gang.

Stanley Mumphrey has brought three of his assistants, and their names are lost in the deluge of introductions. My pal Agent Chris Hanski is back, no doubt to eyeball me for a good before-and-after. He has a sidekick, name instantly forgotten. As we awkwardly take seats around a small conference table, I can’t help but notice amid the pile of papers a couple of identical photos. It’s Malcolm Bannister, and these guys were looking at him. Now they’re gawking at Max. The transformation impresses them.

Since Hanski is the only one who actually met me before the change, he goes first. “I gotta say, Max, you look younger and fitter, not sure you’re that much cuter, but all in all not a bad makeover.” He’s jovial and this is supposed to break the ice.

“That means so much,” I say with a fake smile.

Stanley holds the copied photo and says, “Not even close, Max. No one would suspect you and Malcolm are the same. It’s pretty remarkable.”

We’re all on the same team now, so we banter back and forth like old friends. But there’s no foundation, so the conversation begins to lag. “Is there a trial date?” I ask, and this changes the mood.

“Yes,” Stanley says. “October 10, in Roanoke.”

“That’s only four months away,” I reply. “Seems pretty quick.”

“We’re pretty efficient in the Southern District,” Stanley says smugly. “The average is eight months from indictment to trial. This case has a bit more pressure behind it.”

“Who’s the judge?”

“Sam Stillwater, on loan from the Northern District. All of Fawcett’s colleagues in the Southern recused themselves.”

“Tell me about the trial,” I say.

Stanley frowns, as does the rest of the gang. “It might be rather brief, Max, not a lot of witnesses, not a lot of proof. We’ll establish Rucker was in the vicinity at the time. We’ll prove he had a lot of cash when we caught him. We’ll go into the prosecution of his nephew, the sentencing by Judge Fawcett, maybe there was a revenge element at work.” Stanley pauses here, and I can’t resist a jab. “Pretty overwhelming stuff,” I say like a smart-ass.

“No doubt. Then we have the confession, which the defense has attacked. We have a hearing next week before Judge Stillwater, and we expect to win and keep the confession. Other than that, Max, the star witness might just be you.”

“I’ve told you everything. You know my testimony.”

“Right, right, but we want to cover it again. Now that we’ve filled in a few gaps, let’s nail it down to perfection.”

“Sure. How’s my buddy Quinn holding up?”

“Quinn’s not doing too well these days. He doesn’t like solitary confinement, or the food, the guards, the rules. Says he’s innocent-what a surprise. I think he misses the good life at the federal country club.”

“So do I.” This gets a light laugh or two.

“His lawyer convinced the judge that Quinn needed a psychiatric evaluation. The doctor said he can stand trial but needs some antidepressants. He’s quite moody and often goes days without speaking to anyone.”

“That sounds like the Quinn I knew. Does he mention me?”

“Oh yes. He doesn’t like you either. He suspects you’re our informant and that you’ll testify against him at trial.”

“When do you have to submit your list of witnesses?”

“Sixty days before the trial.”

“Have you told Quinn’s lawyer that I will testify?”

“No. We do not divulge anything until forced to do so.”

“That’s the way I remember it,” I say. These guys forget that I was once on the receiving end of a federal prosecution, with FBI agents sifting through every aspect of my life and a U.S. Attorney’s office threatening to incarcerate not only me but my two innocent partners as well. They think we’re pals now, one big happy team walking lockstep toward another just verdict. If I could, I would knife them in the back and poison their case.

They-the federal government-took away five years of my life, along with my son, my wife, and my career. How dare they sit here as if we’re trusted partners.

We eventually get around to my testimony and spend a couple of hours in review. This ground has been covered before and I find it tedious. Mumphrey’s chief assistant has a script, a Q amp;A, for me to study, and I have to admit it’s pretty good. Nothing has been left out.

I try to visualize the surreal setting of my testimony. I will be brought into the courtroom wearing a mask. I will sit behind a panel or a partition of some manner that will prevent the lawyers, the defendant, and the spectators from seeing my face once the mask is removed. I will look at the jurors. The lawyers will pitch questions over the wall, and I will answer, my voice distorted. Quinn and his family and their thugs will be there, straining for any hint of recognition. They’ll know it’s me, of course, but they’ll never see my face.

As certain as it seems, I seriously doubt if it will ever happen.





CHAPTER 24