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
