The Racketeer (18 page)

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.

CHAPTER 18

A
few miles east of Morgantown, we exit the interstate and find the lot of a Best Western, one of the older-style motels where you can park directly in front of your room. Men are waiting, agents of some variety, FBI, I presume, and as I slide out of the van, wonderfully unshackled, Hanski rushes up and says, “Room 38 here is yours.” One of the unnamed agents unlocks the door and hands me the key. Inside, there are two queen-sized beds, and on one there is a selection of clothes. Hanski and Surhoff close the door behind us.

“I got your sizes from the prison,” Hanski says, waving an arm at my new wardrobe. “If you don’t like it, fine. We can go shopping.”

There are two white shirts and one of blue plaid, all with button-down collars; two pairs of khakis and one pair of pre-washed and faded jeans; a brown leather belt; a stack of boxers, neatly folded; two white T-shirts; several pairs of socks still in the wrappers; a pair of brown moccasins that look presentable; and the ugliest pair of black loafers I’ve ever seen. Overall, not a bad start. “Thanks,” I say.

Hanski continues, “Toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving stuff, all in the bathroom. There’s a small gym bag over there. Anything else you need, we’ll run to the store. You want some lunch?”

“Not now. I just want to be alone.”

“No problem, Mal.”

“It’s now Max, if you don’t mind.”

“Max Baldwin,” Surhoff added.

“That was quick.”

They leave and I lock the door. I slowly strip out of the prison garb—olive shirt and pants, white socks, black thick-soled, lace-up shoes, and boxer shorts that are frayed and worn thin. I put on a pair of the new boxers and a T-shirt, then crawl under the covers and stare at the ceiling.

For lunch, we walk next door to a low-budget seafood joint with a drive-through and all the crab legs one can eat for $7.99. It’s just Hanski, Surhoff, and I, and we enjoy a long meal of mediocre seafood that is, nonetheless, delicious. With the pressure off, they actually crack jokes and comment on my wardrobe. I return the insults by reminding them that I’m not a white frat boy like them and from now on I’ll buy my own clothes.

As the afternoon moves along, they let me know that we have work to do. A lot of decisions must be made. We return to the motel, to the room next to mine, where one of the two beds is covered with files and papers. Hitchcock joins us, so there are four in the room, all supposedly working together, though I’m skeptical. I tell myself over and over that these guys are now on my side, that the government is my protector and friend, but I cannot fully accept this. Perhaps over time they can gain my trust, but I doubt it. The last time I spent hours with government agents I was promised I would not be prosecuted.

By now, the new name has stuck and that decision is final. Hanski says, “Max, we’re leaving here in the morning, and we need to decide where we’re going. That will be determined by what changes in appearance you have in mind. You’ve made it clear that you want your face altered, which presents a challenge.”

“You mean with my testimony?” I ask.

“Yes. Rucker’s trial could be six months from now, or a year.”

“Or he may plead guilty and not go to trial,” I say.

“Sure. But let’s assume he doesn’t do that. Let’s assume he goes to trial. If you have the surgery now, your new face will be on display when you testify. If you wait until after the trial, you’ll be much safer.”

“Safer then, but what about now?” I ask. “What about the next six months? The Rucker gang will come after me, we know that. They’re already thinking of ways, and the sooner the better for them. If they can get me before the trial, then they rub out a valuable witness. The next six months are the most dangerous, so I want the surgery now. Immediately.”

“Okay. What about the trial?”

“Come on, Chris. There are ways to hide me, you know that. I can testify behind a screen or a veil. It’s been done. Don’t you watch television or movies?”

This gets a chuckle here and there, but the mood is pretty serious. The thought of testifying against Quinn Rucker is terrifying, but there are ways to protect me.

“We did one last year,” Hitchcock says. “A big drug trial in New Jersey. The informant looked nothing like his old self, and we put a panel in front of the witness stand so only the judge and jury could see him. We used a voice-altering device, and the defendants had no idea who he was or what he looked like.”

“They’ll certainly know who I am,” I say. “I just don’t want them to see me.”

“All right,” Hanski says. “It’s your decision.”

“Then consider it final,” I say.

Hanski pulls out his cell phone and heads for the door. “Let me make some calls.”

When he’s out of the room, Surhoff says, “Okay, while he’s doing that, can we talk about a destination? Give us some guidance here, Max, so we can get busy finding a place.”

I say, “Florida. Except for the Marines, I’ve lived my entire life in the hills and mountains. I want a change of scenery, beaches and views of the ocean, a warmer climate.” I rattle this off as if I’ve spent hours contemplating it, which in fact I have. “Not south Florida, it’s too hot. Maybe Pensacola or Jacksonville, up north where it’s a bit milder.”

The marshals absorb this, and I can see their minds racing. Surhoff begins hitting keys on his laptop, looking for my new place in the sun. I relax in a chair, my bare feet on the bed, and cannot help but relish where I am. It’s almost 4:00 p.m. Sunday afternoons were the worst days at Frostburg. Like most of the inmates, I didn’t work on the Sabbath and often grew bored. There were pickup basketball games and long walks on the jogging trail, anything to stay busy. Visitation was over, and those who had seen their families were usually subdued. Another week was beginning, one just like the last one.

Slowly, the prison life is fading. I know it will be impossible to forget, but it’s time to start the process of putting it all behind me. Malcolm Bannister is still an inmate, somewhere, but Max Baldwin is a free man with places to go and things to see.

After dark, we drive into Morgantown in search of a steak house. Along the way, we pass a strip club. Nothing is said, but I am sorely tempted. I have not seen a naked woman in five years, though I’ve certainly dreamed of them. However, I’m not sure gawking at a bunch of strippers will be that fulfilling at this point. We find the restaurant that’s been recommended and get a table: just three old pals having a nice dinner. Hanski, Surhoff, and I order the largest fillets on the menu, and I wash mine down with three draft beers. They stick with iced tea, but I can tell they envy my drinks. We turn in before ten, but sleep is impossible. I watch television for an hour, something I did little of at Frostburg.

At midnight, I pick up the copy of the indictment Hanski left behind and read every word. There is no mention of a ballistics report or of any witnesses. There is a lengthy narrative about the crime scene, the bullet wounds, causes of death, the burn marks on Naomi Clary’s body, and the empty safe, but no descriptions of physical evidence. So far, Quinn’s confession is all they have. That, and the suspicion surrounding the cash in his possession. An indictment can be amended by the prosecution at almost any time, and this one needs some work. It appears to be a rush job intended to turn down the heat.