The Client (11 page)

“What’s next?” she asked.

“We wait. His vital signs are stable, so there’s no physical danger. He’ll come around, and when he does, it’s imperative that you be in this room.” Greenway was looking at them now, rubbing his beard, deep in thought. “He must see his mother when he opens his eyes, do you understand this?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You, Mark, can come and go a bit, but it’s best if you stay here as much as possible too.”

Mark nodded his head. The thought of spending another minute in the room was painful.

“The first moments can be crucial. He’ll be frightened when he looks around. He needs to see and feel his mother. Hold him and reassure him. Call the nurse immediately. I’ll leave instructions. He’ll be very hungry, so we’ll try and get some food in him. The
nurse’ll remove the IV, so he can walk around the room. But the important thing is to hold him.”

“When do you—”

“I don’t know. Probably today or tomorrow. There’s no way to predict.”

“Have you seen cases like this before?”

Greenway looked at Ricky, and decided to go for the truth. He shook his head. “Not quite this bad. He’s almost comatose, which is a bit unusual. Normally, after a period of good rest, they’ll be awake and eating.” He almost managed a smile. “But, I’m not concerned. Ricky will be all right. It’ll just take some time.”

Ricky seemed to hear this. He grunted and stretched, but did not open his eyes. They watched intently, hoping for a mumble or word. Though Mark preferred that he remain silent about the shooting until they discussed it alone, he desperately wanted his little brother to wake up and start talking about other matters. He was tired of looking at him curled up on the pillow, sucking that damned thumb.

Greenway reached into his bag and produced a newspaper. It was the
Memphis Press,
the morning paper. He laid it on the bed, and handed Dianne a card. “My office is in the building next door. Here’s the phone number, just in case. Remember, the moment he wakes up, call the nurses’ station, and they’ll call me immediately. Okay?”

Dianne took the card and nodded. Greenway unfolded the newspaper on Ricky’s bed in front of them. “Have you seen this?”

“No,” she answered.

At the bottom of the front page was a headline about Romey. NEW ORLEANS LAWYER COMMITS SUICIDE IN NORTH MEMPHIS. Under the headline to the right was a
big photo of W. Jerome Clifford, and to the left was the smaller headline—FLAMBOYANT CRIMINAL LAWYER WITH SUSPECTED MOB TIES. The word “mob” jumped at Mark. He stared at Romey’s face, and suddenly needed to vomit.

Greenway leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It seems as though Mr. Clifford was a rather well-known lawyer in New Orleans. He was involved in the Senator Boyette case. Apparently, he was the attorney for the man charged with the murder. Have you kept up with it?”

Dianne actually put the unlit cigarette in her mouth. She shook her head no.

“Well, it’s a big case. The first U.S. senator to be murdered in office. You can read this after I leave. There are police and FBI downstairs. They were waiting when I arrived an hour ago.” Mark grabbed the railing on the foot of the bed. “They want to talk to Mark, and of course they want you present.”

“Why?” she asked.

Greenway looked at his watch. “The Boyette case is complicated. I think you’ll understand more after you read the story here. I told them you and Mark could not speak with them until I say so. Is this all right?”

“Yes,” Mark blurted out. “I don’t want to talk to them.” Dianne and Greenway looked at him. “I may end up like Ricky if these cops keep bugging me.” For some reason, Mark knew the police would return with a lot of questions. They were not finished with him. But the photo on the front page of the paper and the mention of the FBI suddenly sent chills over him, and he needed to sit down.

“Keep them away for now,” Dianne said to Greenway.

“They asked if they could see you at nine, and I said no. But they won’t go away.” He looked at his watch again. “I’ll be here at noon. Perhaps we should talk to them then.”

“Whatever you think,” she said.

“Very well. I’ll put them off until twelve. My office has called your employer and the school. Try not to worry about that. Just stay by this bed until I return.” He almost smiled as he closed the door behind him.

Dianne ran to the bathroom and lit her cigarette. Mark punched the remote control by Ricky’s bed until the television was on and he found the local news. Nothing but weather and sports.

DIANNE FINISHED THE STORY ABOUT MR. CLIFFORD AND placed the paper on the floor under the foldaway bed. Mark watched anxiously.

“His client killed a United States senator,” she said in awe.

No kidding. There were about to be some tough questions, and Mark was suddenly hungry. It was past nine. Ricky hadn’t moved. The nurses had forgotten about them. Greenway seemed like ancient history. The FBI was waiting somewhere in the darkness. The room was growing smaller by the minute, and the cheap cot on which he was sitting was ruining his back.

“I wonder why he did that,” he said because he could think of nothing else to say.

“It says Jerome Clifford had ties with the New Orleans mob, and that his client is widely thought to be a member.”

He’d seen
The Godfather
on cable. In fact, he’d even seen the first sequel to
The Godfather,
and he knew
all about the mob. Scenes from the movies flashed before his eyes, and the pains in his stomach grew sharper. His heart pounded. “I’m hungry, Mom. Are you hungry?”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Mark?”

“Because the cop was in the trailer, and it wasn’t a good time to talk. I’m sorry, Mom. I promise I’m sorry. I planned to tell you as soon as we were alone, I promise.”

She rubbed her temples and looked so sad. “You never lie to me, Mark.”

Never say never. “Can we talk about this later, Mom? I’m really hungry. Give me a couple of bucks and I’ll run down to the cafeteria and get some doughnuts. I’d love a doughnut. I’ll get you some coffee.” He was on his feet waiting for the money.

Fortunately, she was not in the mood for a serious talk about truthfulness and such. The Dalmane lingered and her thoughts were slow. Her head pounded. She opened her purse and gave him a five-dollar bill. “Where’s the cafeteria?”

“Basement. Madison Wing. I’ve been there twice.”

“Why am I not surprised? I suppose you’ve been all over this place.”

He took the money and crammed it in the pocket of his jeans. “Yes ma’am. We’re on the quietest floor. The babies are in the basement and it’s a circus down there.”

“Be careful.”

He closed the door behind him. She waited, then took the bottle of Valium from her purse. Greenway had sent it.

*     *     *

MARK ATE FOUR DOUGHNUTS DURING “DONAHUE” and watched his mother try to nap on the bed. He kissed her on the forehead, and told her he needed to roam around a bit. She told him not to leave the hospital.

He used the stairs again because he figured Hardy and the FBI and the rest of the gang might be hanging around somewhere downstairs waiting for him to happen by.

Like most big-city charity hospitals, St. Peter’s had been built over time whenever funds could be squeezed, with little thought of architectural symmetry. It was a sprawling and bewildering configuration of additions and wings, with a maze of hallways and corridors and mezzanines trying desperately to connect everything. Elevators and escalators had been added wherever they would fit. At some point in history, someone had realized the difficulty of moving from one point to another without getting hopelessly lost, and a dazzling array of color-coded signs had been implemented for the orderly flow of traffic. Then more wings were added. The signs became obsolete, but the hospital failed to remove them. Now they only added to the confusion.

Mark darted through now-familiar territory and exited the hospital through a small lobby on Monroe Avenue. He’d studied a map of downtown in the front of the phone book, and he knew Gill Teal’s office was within easy walking distance. It was on the third floor of a building four blocks away. He moved quickly. It was Tuesday, a school day, and he wanted to avoid truant officers. He was the only kid on the street, and he knew he was out of place.

A new strategy was developing. What was wrong, he asked himself as he stared at the sidewalk and avoided eye contact with the pedestrians passing by, with making an anonymous phone call to the cops or FBI and telling them exactly where the body was? The secret would no longer belong only to him. If Romey wasn’t lying, then the body would be found and the killer would go to jail.

There were risks. His phone call to 911 yesterday had been a disaster. Anybody on the other end of the phone would know he was just a kid. The FBI would record him and analyze his voice. The Mafia wasn’t stupid.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

He turned on Third Street, and darted into the Sterick Building. It was old and very tall. The lobby was tile and marble. He entered the elevator with a crowd of others, and punched the button for the third floor. Four other buttons were pushed by people wearing nice clothes and carrying briefcases. They chatted quietly, in the normal hushed tones of elevator talk.

His stop was first. He stepped into a small lobby with hallways running left, right, and straight ahead. He went left, and roamed about innocently, trying to appear calm, as if lawyer shopping were a chore he’d done many times. There were plenty of lawyers in the building. Their names were etched on distinguished bronze plates screwed into the doors, and some doors were covered with rather long and intimidating names with lots of initials followed by periods. J. Winston Buckner. F. MacDonald Durston. I. Hempstead Crawford. The more names Mark read, the more he longed for plain old Gill Teal.

He found Mr. Teal’s door at the end of the hall,
and there was no bronze plate. The words GILL TEAL—THE PEOPLE’S LAWYER were painted in bold black letters from the top of the door to the bottom. Three people waited in the hall beside it.

Mark swallowed, and entered the office. It was packed. The small waiting room was filled with sad people suffering from all sorts of injuries and wounds. Crutches were everywhere. Two people sat in wheelchairs. There were no empty seats, and one poor man in a neck brace sat on the cluttered coffee table, his head wobbling around like a newborn’s. A lady with a dirty cast on her foot cried softly. A small girl with a horribly burned face clung to her mother. War could not have been more pitiful. It was worse than the emergency room at St. Peter’s.

Mr. Teal certainly had been busy rounding up clients. Mark decided to leave, when someone called out rudely, “What do you want?”

It was a large lady behind the receptionist’s window. “You, kid, you want something?” Her voice boomed around the room, but no one noticed. The suffering continued unabated. He stepped to the window and looked at the scowling, ugly face.

“I’d like to see Mr. Teal,” he said softly, looking around.

“Oh you would. Do you have an appointment?” She picked a clipboard and studied it.

“No ma’am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Mark Sway. It’s a very private matter.”

“I’m sure it is.” She glared at him from head to toe. “What type of injury is it?”

He thought about the Exxon truck and how it
had excited Mr. Teal, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off. “I, uh, I don’t have an injury.”

“Well, you’re in the wrong place. Why do you need a lawyer?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Look, kid, you see these people? They’ve all got appointments to see Mr. Teal. He’s a very busy man, and he only takes cases involving death or injuries.”

“Okay.” Mark was already retreating and thinking about the minefield of canes and crutches behind him.

“Now please go bother someone else.”

“Sure. And if I get hit by a truck or something, I’ll come back to see you.” He walked through the carnage, and made a quick exit.

He took the stairs down and explored the second floor. More lawyers. On one door he counted twenty-two bronze names. Lawyers on top of lawyers. Surely one of these guys could help him. He passed a few of them in the hall. They were too busy to notice.

A security guard suddenly appeared and walked slowly toward him. Mark glanced at the next door. The words REGGIE LOVE—LAWYER were painted on it in small letters, and he casually turned the knob and stepped inside. The small reception area was quiet and empty. Not a single client was waiting. Two chairs and a sofa sat around a glass table. The magazines were arranged neatly. Soft music came from above. A pretty rug covered the hardwood floor. A young man with a tie but no coat stood from his desk behind some potted trees and walked a few steps forward. “May I help you?” he asked quite pleasantly.

“Yes. I need to see a lawyer.”

“You’re a bit young to need a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m having some problems. Are you Reggie Love?”

“No. Reggie’s in the back. I’m her secretary. What’s your name?”

He was her secretary. Reggie was a she. The secretary was a he. “Uh, Mark Sway. You’re a secretary?”

“And a paralegal, among other things. Why aren’t you in school?” A nameplate on the desk identified him as Clint Van Hooser.

“So you’re not a lawyer?”

“No. Reggie’s the lawyer.”

“Then I need to speak with Reggie.”

“She’s busy right now. You can have a seat.” He waved at the sofa.

“How long will it be?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know.” The young man was amused by this kid needing a lawyer. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Maybe she can see you for a minute.”

“It’s very important.”

The kid was nervous and sincere. His eyes glanced at the door as if someone had followed him there. “Are you in trouble, Mark?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“What type of trouble? You need to tell me a little about it, or Reggie won’t talk to you.”

“I’m supposed to talk to the FBI at noon, and I think I need a lawyer.”

This was good enough. “Have a seat. It’ll be a minute.”