The Racketeer (21 page)

Inside the courtroom, reporters and onlookers filled the seats long before Rucker’s scheduled appearance at 10:00 a.m.
His arrest and indictment were big news, with no intervening mass murder or celebrity breakup to steal his thunder. Outside the courtroom, the bindings and armor were removed, and Quinn entered unshackled. As the only participant in an orange jumpsuit, and virtually the only black guy in the courtroom, Quinn certainly looked guilty. He sat at a table with Dusty Shiver and one of his associates. Across the aisle, Stanley Mumphrey and his brigade of assistants pushed files around with great importance, as if preparing to argue before the Supreme Court.

Out of respect to their fallen comrade, the other eleven judges in the Southern District had recused themselves from the case. The initial appearance would be in front of Ken Konover, a U.S. Magistrate, who would look and act very much like a presiding judge. Konover took the bench and called things to order. He rattled off a few preliminaries, then asked if the defendant had read the indictment. “He has,” Dusty responded, “and we waive a formal reading.”

“Thank you,” replied Konover.

Seated in the first row behind the defense table was Dee Ray, fashionably dressed as always, and obviously concerned.

Konover said, “Does the defendant wish to enter a plea at this time?”

On cue, Dusty stood and nodded at his client, who likewise got to his feet, awkwardly, and said, “Yes sir. Not guilty.”

“Very well, a plea of not guilty is hereby entered.” Dusty and Quinn sat down.

Konover said, “I have here a motion to set bail, Mr. Shiver. Do you want to be heard on this?” His tone left no doubt that nothing Dusty could say would persuade the court to grant a reasonable bail, if any.

Sensing the inevitable, and wishing not to embarrass himself, Dusty said, “No, Your Honor, the motion speaks for itself.”

“Mr. Mumphrey?”

Stanley stood and walked to the podium. He cleared his throat
and said, “Your Honor, this defendant has been indicted for the murder of a federal judge. The United States feels strongly that he should be held without bail.”

“I agree,” Konover said quickly. “Anything further, Mr. Mumphrey?”

“No sir, not at this time.”

“Mr. Shiver?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“The defendant shall be remanded to the custody of the U.S. Marshals Service.” Konover tapped his gavel, stood, and left the bench. The initial appearance lasted less than ten minutes.

Dee Ray had been in Roanoke for three days and was tired of the place. He leaned on Dusty Shiver, who leaned on a friend at the jail, and a quick meeting was arranged with the accused. Since visits with the family were on weekends only, this one would take place off the record, in a room used to test drunk drivers for blood alcohol content. No record of it would ever be entered. The brothers did not suspect anyone was listening. The FBI recorded their conversation, a portion of it being:

      Q
UINN:
I’m here because of Malcolm Bannister, Dee, you understand what I’m saying?

      D
EE
R
AY:
I got it, I got it, and we’ll deal with it later. Right now you gotta tell me what happened.

      Q
UINN:
Nothin’ happened. I didn’t kill nobody. They tricked me into the confession, like I said. I want something done about Bannister.

      D
EE
R
AY:
He’s in prison, right?

      Q
UINN:
Probably not. Knowing Bannister, he probably used Rule 35 to get out.

      D
EE
R
AY:
Rule 35?

      Q
UINN:
Everybody on the inside knows Rule 35. Ain’t important now. He’s out and he needs to be found.

A long pause.

      D
EE
R
AY:
Lot of time, lot of money.

      Q
UINN:
Look, little brother, don’t tell me about time. The Fibbies got nothin’ on me, I mean nothin’. That don’t mean they can’t nail my ass. If this thing goes to trial in a year or so, Bannister might be their star witness, hear what I’m sayin’?

      D
EE
R
AY:
And what’s he gonna say?

      Q
UINN:
He’ll say whatever it takes, he don’t care. He’s out, man, he cut the deal. He’ll say we talked about Judge Fawcett back in prison. That’s what he’ll say.

      D
EE
R
AY:
Did you?

Another long pause.

      Q
UINN:
Yeah, we talked about him all the time. We knew he kept cash.

A pause.

      Q
UINN:
You gotta get Bannister, Dee Ray. Okay?

      D
EE
R
AY:
Okay. Let me talk to Tall Man.

CHAPTER 21

T
hree weeks post-surgery and I’m climbing the walls. The bandages are off and the stitches are gone, but the swelling is taking forever. I look in the mirror a hundred times a day, waiting for things to improve, waiting for Max to emerge from the bruising and puffiness. My surgical team stops by constantly to tell me how great I look, but I’m sick of these people. I can’t chew, can’t eat, can’t walk for more than five minutes, and so most of my time is spent rolling around in a wheelchair. Movements must be slow and calculated; otherwise, I could rip out some of the fine artwork that has gone into the face of Max Reed Baldwin. I count the days and often think I’m in prison again. Weeks pass, and the swelling and bruising slowly go away.

Is it possible to be in love with a woman you’ve never actually touched? I have convinced myself the answer is yes. Her name is Vanessa Young, and I met her at Frostburg, in the visitors’ room on a cold wintry Saturday morning. I shouldn’t say that I met her, but I saw her for the first time. She was there visiting her brother, a guy I knew and liked. We met later, during another visit, but we couldn’t touch. I wrote her letters and she wrote a few back, but it
became painfully obvious, at least to me, that my infatuation with Vanessa was not exactly a two-way street.

I cannot begin to contemplate the hours I’ve invested fantasizing about this woman.

Over the past two years, our lives have changed dramatically, and now I am emboldened to contact her. My new best friend, Pat Surhoff, informed me that I cannot write or receive letters while at Fort Carson, but I write one anyway. I work on it for days, tweaking, editing, killing time. I bare my soul to Vanessa, and practically beg her to see me.

I’ll find a way to mail it later.

Surhoff is back to fetch me. We leave Fort Carson in a hurry and drive to Denver, where we board a nonstop flight to Atlanta. I wear a baseball cap and big sunglasses, and I do not catch a single curious glance. I bitch about the seating arrangement; we’re sitting side by side in coach, not first class. Pat says Congress is cutting budgets everywhere. After a hearty lunch of raisins and Cokes, we get down to business. He opens a delightful little file with all sorts of goodies: a Virginia court order changing my name to Max Reed Baldwin; a new Social Security card issued to the same guy; a birth certificate proving I was born in Memphis to parents I’ve never heard of; and a Florida driver’s license with a fake photo taken from the computerized rendering my doctors and I concocted before the surgery. It looks so real that not even I can tell it’s fake. Pat explains that I’ll get another in a month or so when my face finally comes together. Same for a passport. We fill out applications for Visa and American Express cards. At his suggestion, I’ve been practicing a different handwriting, one that resembles chicken scratch but is not much worse than the old one. Max signs a six-month lease for a one-bedroom condo in Neptune Beach, a few miles east of Jacksonville, and he applies
for a checking account at SunCoast Bank. Pat tells me there’s a branch office three blocks from the condo. The reward money of $150,000 will be wired into the account as soon as it’s up and running, and from there I can do with it what I want. Because I will hit the ground with so much cash, the powers that be feel as though I don’t need much from them. I really can’t gripe about this. He says the IRS will grant me a waiver from any taxes on the money and provides the name of an accountant who knows both the IRS code and whatever code the marshals use. He hands me an envelope with $3,000 in cash and says this should be enough to get me plugged in. We talk about the ins and outs of leasing a car, as opposed to buying one, and he explains that a lease is easier and will help build a good credit rating.

He hands me a two-page summary of the life of Max Baldwin, and it reads like an obituary. Parents, siblings, education, employment history, and I’m intrigued to know that I’ve spent most of my life in Seattle and have been divorced twice, no children. I’m relocating to Florida because it’s about as far away from wife number two as I can get. It’s important for me to memorize this fiction and stick with the script. I have an employment history (all with government agencies) and a credit score.

On the issue of employment, I have two choices. The first is that of a procurement officer at the Mayport Naval Station a few miles north of Neptune Beach, starting salary of $48,000, two months of training required. The second is that of an account manager for the Veterans Administration, also at $48,000 a year. It’s best if I remain a federal employee, at least for the first few years. However, Pat stresses for the tenth time, my life now belongs to me, and I can do whatever I want. The only boundaries are those dictated by my past.

Just as I begin to feel somewhat overwhelmed, he reaches into his briefcase and pulls out the toys. The first is an Apple iPad, mine courtesy of the government, and already registered to Max. As the librarian, Malcolm had access to computers (but not the
Internet), and I worked hard to keep my skills as fresh as possible. But this thing blows me away. We spend a full hour in an intense tutorial. When I’m exhausted, he pulls out an iPhone. It’s his, not mine because I’ll have to select a service provider and buy my own phone, but he walks me through this amazing device. The flight is over before we can finish.

I find a computer store in the Atlanta airport and I kill an hour browsing through the gadgets. Technology will be the key to my survival, and I am determined to know the latest. Before we leave Atlanta, I mail the letter to Vanessa Young. No return address.