John Grisham - The Racketeer

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.

Diana calls with the news that she has in her possession my new Florida driver’s license and my new passport. We meet for coffee at a waffle house and she hands them over. I give her an itinerary with a lot of gaps in it.

“Taking a trip, huh?” she says, gazing at it.

“Yep, I can’t wait to try out the new passport. The first three nights are in Miami, South Beach, beginning tonight. I’m leaving and driving down as soon as my coffee cup is empty. From there, I’ll fly to Jamaica for a week or so, then to Antigua, and maybe Trinidad. I’ll call you at each stop. I’ll leave my car at the Miami airport so you can tell the FBI exactly where it is. And while you’re at it, ask them to please leave me alone while I bounce around the Caribbean.”

“Leave you alone?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

“You heard me. Let’s not play games here, Diana. I may not be the most heavily protected witness in the country, but I’m probably in the top three. Somebody’s always watching. There’s one guy, I call him Crew Cut, who I’ve seen five times in the past two weeks. He’s not very good, so please pass this along to the Fibbies when you make your report. Six feet even, 180 pounds, Ray-Bans, blond goatee, drives a Cooper and sports a crew cut. Really, really sloppy. I’m surprised.”

So is she. She keeps her eyes on my itinerary and can think of nothing to say. Busted.

I pay for the coffee and hit the road, Interstate 95 straight south for 350 miles. The weather is hot and muggy, the traffic heavy and slow, and I love every mile of the trip. I stop frequently to refuel, to stretch my legs, and to watch for movements behind me. I expect none. Since the FBI knows where I’m going, they won’t bother with a tail. Besides, I assume there is a GPS tracking monitor brilliantly hidden somewhere in my car. Seven hours later, I stop in front of the Blue Moon Hotel, one of the many small, renovated boutique hotels in the heart of the Art Deco District at South Beach. I get my briefcase and small bag from the trunk, hand the keys to the valet, and walk into a scene from Miami Vice . Ceiling fans turn slowly as guests in white-wicker chairs gossip and drink.

“Checking in, sir?” the pretty girl asks.

“Yes. Max Baldwin,” I reply, and for some reason it is a proud moment. I, Mighty Max, am drowning in more freedom than I can absorb at the moment. Plenty of cash, fresh papers that are legit, a convertible that will take me anywhere-it’s almost overwhelming. But I am jolted back to life when a tall, tanned brunette strolls through the lobby. Her top is what’s left of a string bikini and covers almost nothing. Her bottom is a sheer skirt that covers even less.

I hand over a Visa card for the charges. I could also use either cash or a prepaid credit card, but since the Fibbies know where I’m staying, there’s no need to be deceptive. I’m sure the Miami office has been notified, and there’s probably a set of eyes not too far away. If I were really paranoid, I could believe that the FBI has already been in my room and perhaps hidden a bug or two. I get to my room, see no bugs or spooks, take a quick shower, and change into shorts and sandals. I go to the bar to check out the talent. I eat alone in the hotel cafe and catch the eye of a fortyish woman who is dining with what appears to be a female friend. Later, back in the bar, I see her again and we introduce ourselves. Eva, from Puerto Rico. We’re having a drink when the band starts. Eva wants to dance, and though it’s been years, I hit the floor with all the energy I have.