"And by everything you mean?"
"His story is basically what you told us. He bribed Judge Fawcett with $500,000 to save his nephew, and the judge screwed him. Kept the money and nailed the kid. In Quinn's world, that's a crime that cannot be forgiven and must be avenged. He stalked Judge Fawcett, trailed him to his cabin, broke in on the judge and his secretary, and got his revenge."
"How much of the money was left?"
"About half of it. Quinn claims he broke into the judge's apartment in Roanoke, went through everything, and couldn't find the money. He suspected it was being kept somewhere else, somewhere safer. That's why he followed Fawcett to the cabin. He overpowered the judge on the front porch and got inside. He wasn't sure the money was there but was determined to find its location. He did some bad things to the secretary and convinced Fawcett to find the money. Thus, the hidden safe. In Quinn's mind, the money belonged to him."
"And I guess he felt he had to kill them?"
"Oh sure. He couldn't leave two witnesses behind. There's no remorse, Mal. The judge had it coming; the secretary just got in the way. Now he's facing two counts of capital murder."
"So it's a death penalty case?"
"Most likely. We've never executed anyone for killing a federal judge, and we'd love to make Quinn Rucker our first example."
"Did he mention my name?" I ask, certain of the answer.
"Indeed he did. He strongly suspects you're our source, and he's probably plotting revenge. That's why we're here now, ready to go."
I want to leave, but not so fast. "Quinn knows about Rule 35; in fact every federal inmate knows a lot about the rule. You solve a crime on the outside, and you get your sentence commuted. Plus, he thinks I'm a brilliant lawyer. He and his family will know that I'm out, not in prison, not in Fort Wayne or any other facility."
"True, but let's keep them guessing. It's also important for your family and friends to believe you're still locked up."
"Are you worried about my family?" I ask.
Pat Surhoff finally speaks. "On some level, yes, and we can provide protection for them if you so choose. Doing so will obviously disrupt their lives."
"They'll never agree to it," I reply. "My father would throw a punch if you mentioned it to him. He's a retired state trooper who's certain he can take care of himself. My son has a new father and a new life." I cannot comprehend the phone call to Dionne to inform her that Bo might be in danger because of something I've done in prison. And there's a part of me that does not believe Quinn Rucker would harm an innocent boy.
"We can discuss it later, if you'd like," Surhoff says. "Let's do that. I'm having far too many random thoughts right now."
Hanski says, "Freedom awaits you, Mal."
"Let's get out of here." I follow them down a hallway and to another building where three COs and the captain are waiting. I'm handcuffed and shackled at the ankles, then escorted down a sidewalk to a waiting van. An uninformed bystander would think I'm being led to my execution. A marshal named Hitchcock is behind the wheel. Surhoff slides the door shut beside me and climbs into the front passenger seat. Away we go.
I refuse to look back for a parting shot of Frostburg. I have enough images to last for years. I watch the countryside pass by and cannot suppress a smile. A few minutes later, we pull in to the parking lot of a shopping center. Surhoff jumps out, opens the sliding door, reaches over, and unlocks the handcuffs. Then he frees my ankles. "Congratulations," he says warmly, and I decide that I like this guy. I hear the chains rattle for the last time and massage my wrists.
Soon, we accelerate onto Interstate 68 and head west. It's almost springtime, and the rolling hills of far western Maryland are showing signs of life. The first few moments of freedom are almost overwhelming. For five years I have dreamed of this day, and it is exhilarating. There are so many thoughts competing for attention. I can't wait to choose my own clothing, to put on a pair of jeans. I can't wait to buy a car and drive anywhere I want. I long for the feel of a woman's body and for the taste of a steak and a cold beer. I refuse to worry about the safety of my son and father. They will not be harmed.
The marshals want to talk, and so I listen. Pat Surhoff is saying, "Now, Mal, you are no longer in the custody of anyone. If you choose to enter the Witness Security Program, more commonly known as witness protection, we, the U.S. Marshals Service, will take care of you. We provide for your security, safety, and health. We will get you a new identity with authentic documentation. You will receive financial assistance for housing, living expenses, and medical care. We'll find you a job. Once you're up and running, we don't monitor your daily activities, but we're always close by if you need us."
He sounds as though he's reading from a brochure, but the words are music. Hitchcock chimes in, "We've had over eight thousand witnesses in the program, and not a single one has ever been harmed."
I ask the obvious question: "Where will I live?"
"It's a big country, Mal," Hitchcock replies. "We've relocated witnesses a hundred miles from their homes and two thousand miles away. Distance is not that crucial, but, generally speaking, the farther the better. You like warm weather or snow? Mountains and lakes or sun and beaches? Big cities or small cities? Small towns are problematic, and we recommend a place with a population of at least 100,000."
"It's easier to blend in," Surhoff adds.
"And I get to choose?" I ask.
"Within reason, yes," Hitchcock says.
"Let me think about it."
Which I do for the next ten miles or so, and not for the first time. I have a pretty good idea of where I'm going, and for what reasons. I glance over my shoulder and see a familiar vehicle. "I'm assuming that's the FBI right behind us."
"Yes, Agent Hanski and another guy," Surhoff says.
"How long will they follow us?"
"They'll be gone in a few days, I suppose," Surhoff says as he and Hitchcock exchange looks. They don't really know, and I'm not going to press them.
I ask, "Does the FBI routinely keep up with witnesses like me?"
Hitchcock replies, "It depends. Usually, when a witness enters witness protection, he has some unfinished business with the person or persons he snitched on. So the witness may have to go back to court to testify. In that case, the FBI wants to keep up with the witness, but they do it through us. Always through us. Over time, though, as the years go by, the FBI sort of forgets about the witnesses."
Pat changes the subject. "One of the first things you have to do is change your name, legally of course. We use a judge in Fairfax County, Northern Virginia, who keeps the files locked. It's pretty routine, but you need to select a new name. It's best if you keep the same initials, and keep it simple."
"For example?"
"Mike Barnes. Matt Booth. Mark Bridges. Mitch Baldwin."
"Sounds like a bunch of white fraternity brothers."
"Yes, it does. But so does Malcolm Bannister."
"Thanks."
We ponder my new name for a few miles. Surhoff opens a laptop and pecks away. He says, "In this country, what's the most common surname beginning with the letter B?"
"Baker," Hitchcock guesses.
"That's number two."
"Bailey," I guess.
"That's number three. Bell is number four. Brooks number five. The winner is Brown, with twice as many customers as Baker in second place."