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?"
"I'll leave in a couple of days, then it's all yours."
"So you are leaving the area?" Diana asks.
"I didn't say that. I said I'm leaving the condo." I look at Westlake and say, "And please stop following me. There's a good chance someone is watching you as you watch me. Give me a break here, okay?"
"That's not true, Max."
"You don't know what's true. Just stop following me, okay?"
Of course he does not say yes. His cheeks are red and he's really pissed, but then again this is a man who usually gets his way. I walk to the door, yank it open, and say, "If you won't give me a ride, I'll just walk."
"Take him back," Westlake says.
"Thanks," I say over my shoulder and leave the cottage. The last thing I hear is Raynor calling out, "You're making a big mistake, Max."
I ride in the backseat of the Jeep as the same two agents chauffeur me in silence. In the parking lot outside the gym, I get out and say nothing. They drive away, but I doubt they go far. I get into my little Audi, put the top down and go for a drive along the beach on Highway A1A. I refuse to look in the rearview mirror.
Victor Westlake returned to Washington on a government jet. When he arrived in his office after dark, he was briefed on the news that Judge Sam Stillwater had denied the defense motion to suppress the confession of Quinn Rucker. While no great surprise, it was still a relief. He called Stanley Mumphrey in Roanoke and congratulated him. He did not inform the U.S. Attorney that their star witness was about to leave witness protection and disappear into the night.