The Racketeer Page 0,57
heard this before. I cannot help but wonder how many informants, snitches, and spies they've worked on. Hundreds, judging by their teamwork.
As my new look comes together on the large computer screen, we have serious discussions about accessories, and the three seem genuinely excited when a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses is placed on Max's face. "That's it!" the nurse says excitedly, and I have to admit Max looks a lot smarter and hipper. We spend an entire half hour playing around with various mustache schemes, before tossing the idea altogether. We split 2 - 2 on the idea of a beard, then decide to just wait and see. I promise not to shave for a week so we'll have a better idea.
Because of the gravity of what we're doing, my little team is in no hurry. We spend the entire morning redesigning Max, and when everyone is happy, they print a high-definition rendering of my new look. I take it with me back to my room and tack it to the wall. A nurse studies it and says she likes it. I like her too, but she's married and does not flirt. If she only knew.
I pass the afternoon reading and walking around the unrestricted areas of the base. It's much like killing time at Frostburg, a place far away in both distance and memory. I keep coming back to my room, to the face on the 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