The Racketeer Page 0,67
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&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 will sit behind a panel or a partition of some manner that will prevent the lawyers, the defendant, and the spectators from seeing my face once the mask is removed. I will look at the jurors. The lawyers will pitch questions over the wall, and I will answer, my voice distorted. Quinn and his family and their thugs will be there, straining for any hint of recognition. They'll know it's me, of course, but they'll never see my face.
As certain as it seems, I seriously doubt if it will ever happen.
Chapter 24
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