by John Grisham
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.
Around midnight, Eva and I make it to my room, where we immediately undress and hop into bed. I almost pray the FBI has the room wired for even the meekest of sounds. If so, Eva and I give them an earful.
I hustle out of the cab at a curb on 8th Avenue, in downtown Miami. It’s 9:30 a.m., already hot, and after a few minutes of brisk walking, my shirt is sticking to my back. I don’t think I’m being followed, but I duck and dart just the same. The building is a squat five-story box, so ugly you can’t believe someone paid an architect to design it. But then I doubt if most of the tenants are cutting-edge companies. One happens to be called Corporate Registry Services, or CRS, a name so bland and innocuous that no one would ever know the company’s business. And most people would not want to.
CRS may be perfectly legitimate, but it attracts a lot of clients who are not. It’s an address, a drop-off, a front, a phone-answering service that a corporation can hire to buy some measure of authenticity. Since I have not called ahead, I kill an hour waiting for an account representative. Loyd is his name, and he eventually leads me back to a small, stuffy office and offers me a chair across from his landfill of a desk. We chat for a few minutes as he scans the questionnaire I’ve filled out.
“What is Skelter Films?” he finally asks.
“A documentary film production company.”
“Who owns it?”
“Me. Incorporated in Delaware.”
“How many films have you made?”
“None. Just getting started.”
“What are the chances of Skelter Films being around two years from now?”
“Slim.”
He hears this shadiness all the time and it doesn’t faze him. “Sounds like a front.”
“That’s pretty accurate.”
“We require an affidavit in which you swear under oath that your company will not be engaged in criminal activities.”
“I swear it will not.”
He’s heard this before too. “Okay, here’s how we operate. We provide Skelter with a physical address, here in this building. When we get mail, we forward it to wherever you say. We provide a phone number, and all incoming calls will be handled by a live voice who’ll chirp whatever you want. ‘Good morning, Skelter Films, how can I direct your call?’ Or something else. You got partners?”
“No.”
“Any employees, fictional or otherwise?”
“I’ll have a few names, all fictional.”
“No problem. If the caller asks for one of these ghosts, our girl will say whatever you want. ‘Sorry, he’s filming on location,’ or whatever. You write the fiction, and we’ll deliver it. As soon as we get a call, we notify you. What about a Web site?”
I’m not sure about this, so I say, “Not yet. What are the pros?”
Loyd shifts weight and leans on his elbows. “Okay, let’s say Skelter is a legitimate company that will make lots of documentaries. If so, it will need a Web site for all the usual reasons-marketing, information, ego. On the other hand, let’s pretend Skelter is a real corporation but not a real film company. Maybe it’s trying to just give that impression, for whatever reason. A Web site is a great way to bolster the image, to sort of fudge on reality. Nothing illegal, mind you. But we can establish a Web site with stock photos and biographies of your staff, your films, awards, ongoing projects, you name it.”
“How much?”
“Ten grand.”
I’m not sure I want or need to spend the money, not at this point anyway. “Let me ponder it,” I say, and Loyd shrugs. “How much for your basic registry services?”
“Address, phone, fax, and everything related is $500 a month, payable six months in advance.”
“You accept cash?”
Loyd smiles and says, “Oh yes. We prefer cash.” No surprise there. I pay the money, sign a contract, sign the affidavit form promising to keep my activities legal, and leave his office. CRS boasts of nine hundred satisfied clients, and as I walk through the lobby, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve joined some manner of underworld filled with shell companies, faceless crooks, and foreign tax evaders. What the hell.
After two more nights with Eva, she wants me to go home to Puerto Rico with her. I promise to think about it, then slip away from the Blue Moon and drive to the Miami International Airport, where I park in long-term and shuttle to the terminals. I pull out a credit card and my new passport and buy a one-way ticket to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica. The plane is packed: half dark-skinned native Jamaicans and half pale-white tourists headed for the sun. Before we take off, the lovely attendants are serving rum punch. The flight takes forty-fiv
e minutes. On the ground, the Customs agent takes far too long studying my passport, and I’m starting to panic when he finally waves me through. I find the bus to Rum Bay Resort, an all-inclusive, singles-only, fairly notorious stretch of topless beaches. For three days, I sit in the shade by the pool and ponder the meaning of life.
From Jamaica, I fly to Antigua, in the Leeward Islands of the eastern Caribbean. It’s a lovely island, a hundred square miles, with mountains and white beaches and dozens of resorts. It’s also known as one of the world’s friendlier tax havens these days, and this is one reason for my visit. If I wanted nothing more than a good party, I would have stayed in Jamaica. The capital is St. John’s, a bustling town of thirty thousand situated on a deep harbor that attracts cruise ships. I check into my room in a small inn on the edge of St. John’s, with a beautiful view of the water, boats, and yachts. It’s June, the off-season, and for $300 a night I will eat like a king, sleep until noon, and relish the fact that no one knows who I am, where I came from, or anything about my past.
CHAPTER 25
The Freezer had been dismantled a month earlier, and Victor Westlake was settled back into his routine and office on the fourth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington. Though the murders of Judge Fawcett and Naomi Clary were technically solved, many doubts and questions remained. The most pressing issue, of course, was the validity of Quinn Rucker’s confession. If the judge suppressed it, the government would be left with little proof with which to go forward. The murders were solved, but the case was not closed, at least in Westlake’s opinion. He was still spending two hours each day dealing with it. There was the daily report on the business of Max Baldwin: his movements, meetings, phone calls, Internet activity, et cetera. So far, Max had done nothing to surprise them. Westlake did not like the trip to Jamaica and beyond, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were watching as closely as possible. There was the daily report on Rucker’s family. The FBI had obtained court approval to monitor phone conversations of Dee Ray Rucker, Sammy (Tall Man) Rucker, their sister Lucinda, and four relatives involved in the D.C. unit of their trafficking operation.
On Wednesday, June 15, Westlake was in a staff meeting when he was summoned to the phone. It was urgent, and within minutes he was in a conference room with technicians who were working quickly to prepare the audio. One of them said, “The call came to Dee Ray’s cell phone last night at 11:19, not sure where it came from, but here it is. The first voice is Dee Ray, the second is Sully. We have not yet identified Sully.” Another technician said, “Here it is.”
DEE RAY: Yeah.
SULLY: Dee Ray, Sully here.
DEE RAY: What you got?
SULLY: Got the snitch, man. Bannister.
DEE RAY: No shit, man.
SULLY: No shit, Dee Ray.
DEE RAY: Okay, don’t tell me how, just tell me where.
SULLY: Well, he’s a beach bum now, in Florida. Name is Max Baldwin, lives in a little condo in Neptune Beach, east of Jacksonville. Seems to have some money, taking it easy, you know. The good life.
DEE RAY: What’s he look like?
SULLY: A different dude. Lots of surgery. But the same height, down a few pounds. Same walk. Plus we got a fingerprint and a match.
DEE RAY: A fingerprint?
SULLY: Our firm is good. They followed him down the beach and saw him toss a water bottle in the trash. They picked it up, got a print.
DEE RAY: That is good.
SULLY: Like I said. What now?
DEE RAY: Sit tight. Let me sleep on it. He ain’t going nowhere, right?
SULLY: No, he’s a happy boy.
DEE RAY: Beautiful.
Westlake slowly fell into a chair, slack-jawed and pale, too shaken to speak for a moment. Then, “Get me Twill.” A flunky disappeared, and while he waited, Westlake rubbed his eyes and contemplated his next move. Twill, the top assistant, arrived in a rush, and they listened to the tape again. For Westlake, it was even more chilling the second time around.
“How in the …,” Twill mumbled.
Westlake was recovering. “Call Bratten at the Marshals Service.”
“Bratten had surgery yesterday,” Twill said. “Newcombe is in charge.”
“Then get Newcombe on the phone. We can’t waste time here.”
I’ve joined a gym and I spend an hour there each day around noon, walking uphill on a treadmill and doing reps with light weights. If I plan to spend so much time on the beach, I need to look the part.
After some steam and a long shower, I am dressing when the cell phone starts buzzing in the top of my locker. It’s dear Diana, and an odd time for her to be calling. “Hello,” I say quietly, though the locker room is not busy.
“We need to talk,” she says abruptly, the first-ever hint that something might be out of place.
“About what?”
“Not now. There are two FBI agents in the parking lot in a maroon Jeep Cherokee, parked next to your car. They’ll give you a ride.”
“And how exactly do you know where I am at this moment, Diana?”
“Let’s discuss it later.”
I sit in a folding chair. “Talk to me, Diana. What’s going on?”
“Max, I’m ten minutes away. Follow orders, get in the Jeep, and I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as I see you. Let’s not do it over the phone.”
“Okay.” I finish dressing and try to act as calm as always. I walk through the gym and smile at a yoga instructor I’ve been smiling at for a week now and make my way to the front door. I glance outside and see the maroon Jeep parked next to my car. At this point it’s fairly obvious that something dreadful has happened, so I swallow hard and step into the blinding midday sun. The driver hops out and, without a word, opens a rear door. I ride for seven minutes in complete silence until we park in the driveway of a quaint duplex cottage with a “For Rent” sign in the front yard. It’s a block from the ocean. As soon as the engine is turned off, both agents jump out and scan the periphery, as if snipers might be up there, just waiting. The knot in my stomach feels like a bowling ball.
We make it inside without getting shot, and Diana is waiting. “Nice place you have here,” I say.
“It’s a safe house,” she replies.
“Oh, okay. And why are we hiding in a safe house in the middle of a perfectly fine day?”
A gray-haired man enters from the kitchen and thrusts out a hand. “Max, I’m Dan Raynor, U.S. Marshal, supervisor for this area.” We shake hands like old friends and he’s actually smiling as if we’re about to have a long lunch.
“A real pleasure,” I say. “What’s going on?”
There are four of them-Raynor, Diana, and the two nameless FBI agents-and for a few seconds they’re not sure of the protocol here. Whose territory? Who’s included? Who stays and who leaves? As I’ve already learned, these cross-agency turf fights can be confusing.
Raynor does the talking. “Max, I’m afraid there’s been a breach. To put it bluntly-your cover has been blown. We have no idea how this happened.”
I sit down and wipe my forehead. “Who knows what?” I ask.
Raynor says, “We don’t know much, but there are some folks flying in from Washington right now. They should be here in an hour or so. Evidently, the FBI picked up something last night from a wiretap. There was some chatter among the Rucker family, and the FBI heard it.”
“They know where I am?”
“They do. They know exactly where you’re living.”
“We’re very sorry about this, Max,” Diana says, and I glare at her and her stupidity as if I could strangle her.
“Gosh, that means so much,” I say. “Why don’t you just shut up?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s twice you’ve said that. Please don’t say it again, okay? It means nothing. It’s totally useless.”
She’s stung by my harshness, but I really don’t care. My only concern right now is my own skin. The four people staring at me, along with their
higher-ups and their entire government, are all responsible for the “breach.”
“Would you like some coffee?” Diana asks meekly.
“No, I’d like some heroin,” I say. They find this funny, but then we could all use a laugh. Coffee is poured and a platter of cookies makes the rounds. We begin the process of waiting. As surreal as it is, I begin thinking about where to go next.
Raynor says they’ll get my car after dark. They’re waiting on a black male agent from the Orlando office who will be my double for the next day or so. Under no circumstances will I be allowed to return to my condo to live, and we haggle about how to retrieve my sparse belongings. The Marshals Service will take care of the lease and turn off the utilities. Raynor thinks I’ll need a different vehicle, but I push back initially.
The FBI agents leave and return with sandwiches. The clock seems to stop as the walls close in. Finally, at 3:30, Mr. Victor Westlake walks in the front door and says, “Max, I’m sorry.” I do not stand, nor do I offer a hand to shake. The sofa is all mine. He has three other dark suits with him and they scramble for kitchen chairs and stools. When everyone is introduced and seated, Westlake begins, “This is highly unusual, Max, and I don’t know what to say. As of now, we have no idea where the breach occurred, and we may never find out.”
“Just tell me what you do know,” I say.
Westlake opens a file and pulls out some papers. “Here’s the transcript of a phone conversation we caught last night between Dee Ray Rucker and someone named Sully. Both were on cell phones. Dee Ray was in D.C. Sully made the call from somewhere around here.”
I read the transcript while the rest of them hold their breath. It takes a few seconds, then I place it on the coffee table. “How’d they do it?” I ask.
“We’re still working on it. One theory is that they used a private company to track you down. We monitor a handful of firms that specialize in corporate espionage, surveillance, missing persons, private snooping, and the like. These are ex-military types, ex-spies, and, I’m ashamed to say, a few ex-FBI agents. They’re good and they have the technology. For the right fee, they could gather a lot of information.”
“From where? From the inside?”
“We don’t know yet, Max.”
“If you did know, you wouldn’t tell me. You would never admit it if the breach was caused by someone within the government-the FBI, the Marshals Service, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the Department of Justice, the Bureau of Prisons. Hell knows who else. How many people are plugged into this little secret, Mr. Westlake? Several dozen, maybe more. Did the Ruckers find me because they picked up my scent, or did they follow the FBI because the FBI was following me?”
“I assure you there was no internal breach.”
“But you just said you don’t know. Your assurances mean nothing at this point. The only certainty right now is that everyone involved will cover their ass and point fingers, starting right now. I don’t believe anything you say, Mr. Westlake. You or anybody else.”
“You have to trust us, Max. This situation is urgent, perhaps lethal.”
“I trusted you until this morning, and look where I am now. There’s no trust. Zero.”
“We have to protect you until the trial, Max. You understand this. After the trial, we lose interest. But until then, we have to make sure you’re safe. That’s why we tapped the phones. We were monitoring the Ruckers and we got lucky. We’re on your side, Max. Sure, there was a screwup somewhere, and we’ll find out what happened. But you’re sitting here in one piece because we were doing our jobs.”
“Congratulations,” I say, and go to the bathroom.
The real fight breaks out when I inform them I’m leaving witness protection. Dan Raynor rants about how dangerous my life will be if I don’t allow them to scoop me up and deposit me a thousand miles away, under yet another name. Too bad. I’ll take my chances hiding on my own. Westlake begs me to stay with them. My testimony will be crucial at trial, and without it there may be no conviction. I remind him repeatedly that they have a confession, and no federal judge is going to suppress it. I promise I’ll show up for the trial. I argue that my life will be safer when only I know where I’m hiding. There are simply too many agents involved in protecting me. Raynor reminds me more than once that the Marshals Service has never lost an informant within its protection, over eight thousand and counting, and I repeatedly remind him someone will be the first casualty. Someone other than me.
The discussion is often heated, but I’m not backing down. And all they can do is argue. They have no authority over me. My sentence was commuted and I’m not on parole. I agreed to testify, and I plan to do so. My agreement with the Marshals Service plainly states that I can leave witness protection anytime I want.
“I’m leaving,” I declare and get to my feet. “Will you be so kind as to drive me back to my car?”
No one moves. Raynor asks, “What are your plans?”
“Why would I share my plans with you?”
“What about the condo?”