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