“All right,” Hanski says. “It’s your decision.”

“Then consider it final,” I say.

Hanski pulls out his cell phone and heads for the door. “Let me make some calls.”

When he’s out of the room, Surhoff says, “Okay, while he’s doing that, can we talk about a destination? Give us some guidance here, Max, so we can get busy finding a place.”

I say, “Florida. Except for the Marines, I’ve lived my entire life in the hills and mountains. I want a change of scenery, beaches and views of the ocean, a warmer climate.” I rattle this off as if I’ve spent hours contemplating it, which in fact I have. “Not south Florida, it’s too hot. Maybe Pensacola or Jacksonville, up north where it’s a bit milder.”

The marshals absorb this, and I can see their minds racing. Surhoff begins hitting keys on his laptop, looking for my new place in the sun. I relax in a chair, my bare feet on the bed, and cannot help but relish where I am. It’s almost 4:00 p.m. Sunday afternoons were the worst days at Frostburg. Like most of the inmates, I didn’t work on the Sabbath and often grew bored. There were pickup basketball games and long walks on the jogging trail, anything to stay busy. Visitation was over, and those who had seen their families were usually subdued. Another week was beginning, one just like the last one.

Slowly, the prison life is fading. I know it will be impossible to forget, but it’s time to start the process of putting it all behind me. Malcolm Bannister is still an inmate, somewhere, but Max Baldwin is a free man with places to go and things to see.

After dark, we drive into Morgantown in search of a steak house. Along the way, we pass a strip club. Nothing is said, but I am sorely tempted. I have not seen a naked woman in five years, though I’ve certainly dreamed of them. However, I’m not sure gawking at a bunch of strippers will be that fulfilling at this point. We find the restaurant that’s been recommended and get a table: just three old pals having a nice dinner. Hanski, Surhoff, and I order the largest fillets on the menu, and I wash mine down with three draft beers. They stick with iced tea, but I can tell they envy my drinks. We turn in before ten, but sleep is impossible. I watch television for an hour, something I did little of at Frostburg.

At midnight, I pick up the copy of the indictment Hanski left behind and read every word. There is no mention of a ballistics report or of any witnesses. There is a lengthy narrative about the crime scene, the bullet wounds, causes of death, the burn marks on Naomi Clary’s body, and the empty safe, but no descriptions of physical evidence. So far, Quinn’s confession is all they have. That, and the suspicion surrounding the cash in his possession. An indictment can be amended by the prosecution at almost any time, and this one needs some work. It appears to be a rush job intended to turn down the heat.

I am not being critical; it’s a gorgeous document.

CHAPTER 19

For Stanley Mumphrey, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, the event would be the biggest moment yet in his brief career as a federal prosecutor. On the job for two years now, appointed by the President, he had found it all rather mundane, and though it was a fabulous addition to his résumé, it was somewhat unfulfilling. Until, of course, Judge Fawcett and Ms. Clary were murdered. Instantly, Stanley’s career had new meaning. He had the hottest case in the country and, like many U.S. Attorneys, planned to make the most of it.

The gathering was advertised as a press conference, though none of the authorities planned to answer any questions. It was a show, nothing more, nothing less. A carefully orchestrated act intended to (1) feed some egos and (2) let the public, especially the potential jurors, know that the Feds had their man, and his name was Quinn Al Rucker.

By 9:00 a.m., the podium was covered with portable mikes, all advertising the television and radio stations from whence they came. The courtroom was packed with reporters of all stripes. Men with bulky cameras stepped on each other as they jockeyed for position, all under the watchful eyes of courtroom deputies.

In the rule books and decisions that govern the practice and procedure of criminal law, at both the state and the federal levels, nowhere is it written that the “announcement” or “handing down” or “delivering” or “issuance” of an indictment must be publicized. In fact, almost none of them are. They are formally registered with the clerk once the grand jury makes its decision, and eventually served upon the defendant. An indictment is only one side of the case—the prosecution’s. Nothing contained within an indictment is evidence; at trial, the jury never sees it. The grand jury that issues an indictment hears only one side of the case, that presented by the government.

Occasionally, though, an indictment is too hot, too important, just too damned much fun, to be allowed to flow benignly through the system. It must be publicized by those who’ve worked so hard to catch a criminal and who will bring him to justice. Stanley Mumphrey did nothing to apprehend Quinn Rucker, but he was certainly the man who would put him on trial. In the federal pecking order, the U.S. Attorney far outranks a mere FBI agent; therefore, the event belonged to Stanley. As was customary, he would share (reluctantly) the spotlight with the FBI.

At 9:10, a door opened beside the bench, and a platoon of hard-nosed men in black suits flooded the space behind the podium. They jostled for position, all with their hands cupped over their balls. The arrangement here was crucial because the frame was only so wide. Standing at the podium, side by side, were Stanley Mumphrey and Victor Westlake—head prosecutor, head cop. Behind them were FBI agents and assistant prosecutors, inching together, squeezing, trying to find a good view of the cameras so the cameras could hopefully see them. The lucky ones would listen intently to Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake, and they would frown and act as if they had no clue there was a camera within two miles of the courthouse. It was the same pathetic routine perfected by members of Congress.

“This morning, we have an indictment in the murder case of Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary,” Mumphrey said slowly, his voice nervous and at least two octaves higher than normal. He’d been struggling in the courtroom, losing the slam dunk cases he assigned to himself, and the most common criticism was that he seemed jittery and out of place. Some felt that it was perhaps because he had spent so little time in the courtroom during his unremarkable ten-year career.

Stanley picked up the indictment and held it higher, as if those watching were now expected to read the print. “This indictment is for two counts of murder. The defendant is one Quinn Al Rucker. And, yes, I fully expect to seek the death penalty in this case.” This last sentence was supposed to send ripples of drama through the crowd, but Stanley’s timing was off. Drama came quickly, though, when an aide flashed a large black-and-white photo of Quinn on a screen. Finally, the world saw the man who killed the judge and his secretary. Guilty!

Reading shakily from his notes, Stanley gave the background on Quinn and managed to convey the impression that Quinn had escaped from prison for the sole purpose of exacting revenge against the judge. At one point, Victor Westlake, standing sentry-like at his shoulder, frowned and glanced down at his notes. But Stanley marched on, almost blubbering about his beloved friend and mentor Raymond Fawcett, how much the judge meant to him, and so on. His voice actually shook a bit when he tried to explain how honored he was to have the awesome responsibility of seeking justice for these “gruesome” murders. It would have taken about two minutes to read the entire indictment, then go home. But no. With a crowd like this, and millions watching, Stanley found it necessary to ramble on and give a speech, one about justice and the war on crime. After several painful digressions, he got back on track near the end when it was time to hand off. He praised Victor Westlake and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation for its work, work that was “superhuman, tireless, and brilliant.”