wall: a slick head, slightly pointed nose, slightly enhanced chin, leaner cheeks, no wrinkles, and the eyes of someone new. The middle-aged puffiness is gone. The eyelids are not quite as large. Most important, Max is staring through a pair of round designer frames, and he looks pretty damned hip.
I’m assuming it’s just that easy, that these doctors can deliver a face that looks exactly like Max on the wall. But even if they get close, I’ll be pleased. No one will recognize their new creation, and that’s all that matters. I’m too close to judge whether I’ll look better before or after, but the truth is that I’ll look good enough. Safety is indeed far more important than vanity.
At seven the next morning, they prep me and roll me into a small operating room. The anesthesiologist goes through his routine, and I happily float away.
The operation lasts for five hours and is a great success, according to the doctors. They have no way of knowing because my face is wrapped like a mummy’s. It will be weeks before the swelling is all gone and the new features take shape.
Four days after he was indicted, Quinn Rucker made his initial appearance in court. For the occasion, he was kept in the same orange jumpsuit he’d been wearing since his arrival at the Roanoke City Jail. He was handcuffed and chained to his waist, and his ankles were bound and chained. A bulletproof vest was strapped over his shoulders and around his midsection, and no fewer than a dozen heavily armed guards, agents, and deputies escorted him out of the jail and into a bulletproof Chevrolet Suburban. No threats had been made on his life and a secret route would be taken to the federal courthouse, but the authorities were taking no chances.
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:
QUINN: I’m here because of Malcolm Bannister, Dee, you understand what I’m saying?
DEE RAY: I got it, I got it, and we’ll deal with it later. Right now you gotta tell me what happened.
QUINN: Nothin’ happened. I didn’t kill nobody. They tricked me into the confession, like I said. I want something done about Bannister.
DEE RAY: He’s in prison, right?
QUINN: Probably not. Knowing Bannister, he probably used Rule 35 to get out.
DEE RAY: Rule 35?
QUINN: Everybody on the inside knows Rule 35. Ain’t important now. He’s out and he needs to be found.
A long pause.
DEE RAY: Lot of time, lot of money.
QUINN: 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’?
DEE RAY: And what’s he gonna say?
QUINN: 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.
DEE RAY: Did you?
Another long pause.
QUINN: Yeah, we talked about him all the time. We knew he kept cash.
A pause.
QUINN: You gotta get Bannister, Dee Ray. Okay?
DEE RAY: Okay. Let me talk to Tall Man.
CHAPTER 21
Three 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
