The Racketeer

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 dunkcases 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.”
    When he finally shut up, Westlake thanked him, though it was unclear if he was thanking him for shutting up or for passing along so many compliments. Westlake was far more experiencedin these productions than young Stanley, and he spoke for five minutes without saying anything. He thanked his men, said he was confident the case had been solved, and wished the prosecution well. When he finished and took a step back, a reporter yelled a question. Westlake snapped, “No comment,” and indicated it was time to go. Stanley, though, wasn’t ready to leave all those cameras. For a second or two he smiled goofily at the crowd, as if to say, “Here I am.” Then Westlake whispered something to him.
    “Thank you,” Stanley said and backed away. The event