The Client (30 page)

“That makes sense,” Harry said. “But what do you do if the kid tells you what you want to hear. He’s a marked little boy at that point, don’t you think? If these guys are as dangerous as you say, then our little pal could be in serious trouble.”

“We’re making preliminary arrangements to place him in the witness protection program. All of them—Mark, his mother, and brother.”

“Have you discussed this with his attorney?”

“No sir,” Fink answered. “The last time we were in her office she refused to meet with us. She’s been difficult too.”

“Let me see your petition.”

Fink whipped it out and handed it to him. He carefully put on his reading glasses and studied it. When he finished, he handed it back to Fink.

“I don’t like this, gentlemen. I just don’t like the smell of it. I’ve seen a million cases, and never one involving a minor and a charge of obstructing justice. I have an uneasy feeling.”

“We’re desperate, Your Honor,” Lewis confessed with a great deal of sincerity. “We have to know what the kid knows, and we fear for his safety. This is all on the table. We’re not hiding anything, and we’re damned sure not trying to mislead you.”

“I certainly hope not.” Harry glared at them. He scribbled something on scratch paper. They waited and watched his every move. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ll sign the order. I want the kid taken directly to the Juvenile Wing and placed in a cell by himself. He’ll be scared to death, and I want him handled with velvet gloves. I’ll personally call his lawyer later in the morning.”

They stood in unison and thanked him. He pointed to the door, and they left quickly without handshakes or farewells.

     21     

KAREN KNOCKED LIGHTLY AND ENTERED THE DARK ROOM with a basket of fruit. The card brought get-well messages from the congregation of Little Creek Baptist Church. The apples and bananas and grapes were wrapped in green cellophane, and looked pretty sitting next to a rather large and expensive arrangement of colorful flowers sent by the concerned friends at Ark-Lon Fixtures.

The shades were drawn, the television was off, and when Karen closed the door to leave, none of the Sways had moved. Ricky had changed position, and was now lying on his back with his feet on the pillows and his head on the blankets. He was awake, but for the last hour had been staring blankly at the ceiling without saying a word or moving an inch. This was something new. Mark and Dianne sat next to each other on the foldaway bed with their feet tucked under them and whispered about such things as clothing and toys and dishes. There was fire insurance, but Dianne didn’t know the extent of the coverage.

They spoke in hushed voices. It would be days or weeks before Ricky knew of the fire.

At some point in the morning, about an hour after Reggie and Clint left, the shock of the news wore off and Mark started thinking. It was easy to think in this dark room because there was nothing else to do. The television could be used only when Ricky wanted it. The shades remained closed if there was a chance he was sleeping. The door was always shut.

Mark had been sitting in a chair under the television, eating a stale chocolate chip cookie, when it occurred to him that maybe the fire was not an accident. Earlier, the man with the knife had somehow entered the trailer and found the portrait. His intent had been to wave the knife and wave the portrait, and forever silence little Mark Sway. And he had been most successful. What if the fire was just another reminder from the man with the switchblade? Trailers were easy to burn. The neighborhood was usually quiet at four in the morning. He knew this from experience.

This thought had stuck like a thick knot in his throat, and his mouth was suddenly dry. Dianne didn’t notice. She’d been sipping coffee and patting Ricky.

Mark had wrestled with it for a while, then had taken a short walk to the nurses’ station, where Karen showed him the morning paper.

The thought was so horrible, it seared itself into his mind, and after two hours of thinking about it he was convinced the fire was intentional.

“What will the insurance cover?” he asked.

“I’ll have to call the agent. There are two policies, if I remember correctly. One is paid by Mr. Tucker on the trailer, because he owns it, and the other is paid by us for the contents of the trailer. The monthly rent is
supposed to include the premium for the insurance on the contents. I think that’s how it works.”

This worried Mark immensely. There were many awful memories from the divorce, and he remembered his mother’s inability to testify about any of the financial affairs of the family. She knew nothing. His ex-father paid the bills and kept the checkbook and filed the tax returns. Twice in the past two years the telephone had been cut off because Dianne had forgotten to pay the bills. Or so she said. He suspected each time that there was no money to pay the bills.

“But what will the insurance pay for?” he asked.

“Furniture, clothes, kitchen utensils, I guess. That’s what it usually covers.”

There was a knock on the door, but it did not open. They waited, then another knock. Mark opened it slightly, and saw two new faces peering through the crack.

“Yes,” he said, expecting trouble because the nurses and security guards allowed no one to get this far. He opened the door a bit wider.

“Looking for Dianne Sway,” said the nearest face. There was volume to this, and Dianne started for the door.

“Who are you?” Mark asked, opening the door and walking into the hall. The two security guards were standing together to the right, and three nurses were standing together to the left, and all five appeared frozen as if witnessing a horrible event. Mark locked eyes with Karen, and knew instantly something was terribly wrong.

“Detective Nassar, Memphis PD. This is Detective Klickman.”

Nassar wore a coat and tie, and Klickman wore a
black jogging suit with sparkling new Nike Air Jordans. They were both young, probably early thirties, and Mark immediately thought of the old
Starsky and Hutch
reruns. Dianne opened the door and stood behind her son.

“Are you Dianne Sway?” Nassar asked.

“I am,” she answered quickly.

Nassar pulled papers from his coat pocket and handed them over Mark’s head to his mother. “These are from Juvenile Court, Ms. Sway. It’s a summons for a hearing at noon today.”

Her hands shook wildly and the papers rattled as she tried hopelessly to make sense of this.

“Could I see your badges?” Mark asked, rather coolly under the circumstances. They both grabbed and reached and presented their identification under Mark’s nose. He studied them carefully, and sneered at Nassar. “Nice shoes,” he said to Klickman.

Nassar tried to smile. “Ms. Sway, the summons requires us to take Mark Sway into custody at this time.”

There was a heavy pause of two or three seconds as the word “custody” settled in.

“What!” Dianne yelled at Nassar. She dropped the papers. The “What!” echoed down the hallway. There was more anger in her voice than fear.

“It’s right here on the front page,” Nassar said, picking up the summons. “Judge’s orders.”

“You what!” she yelled again, and it shot through the air like the crack of a bullwhip. “You can’t take my son!” Dianne’s face was red and her body, all hundred and fifteen pounds, was tense and coiled.

Great, thought Mark. Another ride in a patrol car.
Then his mother yelled, “You son of a bitch!” and Mark tried to calm her.

“Mom, don’t yell. Ricky can hear you.”

“Over my dead body!” she yelled at Nassar, just inches away. Klickman backed away one step, as if to say this wild woman belonged to Nassar.

But Nassar was a pro. He’d arrested thousands. “Look, Ms. Sway, I understand how you feel. But I have my orders.”

“Whose orders!”

“Mom, please don’t yell,” Mark pleaded.

“Judge Harry Roosevelt signed the order about an hour ago. We’re just doing our job, Ms. Sway. Nothing’s gonna happen to Mark. We’ll take care of him.”

“What’s he done? Just tell me what’s he done.” Dianne turned to the nurses. “Can somebody help me here?” she pleaded, and sounded so pitiful. “Karen, do something, would you? Call Dr. Greenway. Don’t just stand there.”

But Karen and the nurses just stood there. The cops had already warned them.

Nassar was still trying to smile. “If you’ll read these papers, Ms. Sway, you’ll see that a petition has been filed in Juvenile Court alleging Mark here to be a delinquent because he won’t cooperate with the police and FBI. And Judge Roosevelt wants to have a hearing at noon today. That’s all.”

“That’s all! You asshole! You show up here with your little papers and take away my son and you say ‘That’s all’!”

“Not so loud, Mom,” Mark said. He’d hadn’t heard such language from her since the divorce.

Nassar stopped trying to smile and pulled at the corners of his mustache. Klickman for some reason was
glaring at Mark as if he were a serial killer they’d been tracking for years. There was a long pause. Dianne kept both hands on Mark’s shoulders. “You can’t have him!”

Finally, Klickman said his first words. “Look, Ms. Sway, we have no choice. We have to take your son.”

“Go to hell,” she snapped. “If you take him, you whip me first.”

Klickman was a meathead with little finesse, and for a split second his shoulders flinched as if he would accept this challenge. Then he relaxed and smiled.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go. Call Reggie and tell her to meet me at the jail. She’ll probably sue these clowns by lunch and have them fired by tomorrow.”

The cops grinned at each other. Cute little kid.

Nassar then made the very sad mistake of reaching for Mark’s arm. Dianne lunged and struck like a cobra. Whap! She slapped him on his left cheek and screamed, “Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him!”

Nassar grabbed his face, and Klickman instantly grabbed her arm. She wanted to strike again, but was suddenly spun around, and somehow in the midst of this her feet and Mark’s feet became tangled and they hit the floor. “You son of a bitch!” she kept screaming. “Don’t touch him.”

Nassar reached down for some reason, and Dianne kicked him on the thigh. But she was barefoot and there was little damage. Klickman was reaching down, and Mark was scrambling to get up, and Dianne was kicking and swinging and yelling, “Don’t touch him!” The nurses rushed forward and the security guards joined in as Dianne got to her feet.

Mark was pulled from the fracas by Klickman. Dianne was held by the two security guards. She was twisting and crying. Nassar was rubbing his face. The
nurses were soothing and consoling and trying to separate everyone.

The door opened, and Ricky stood in it holding a stuffed rabbit. He stared at Mark, whose wrists were being held by Klickman. He stared at his mother, whose wrists were being held by the security guards. Everyone froze and stared at Ricky. His face was as white as the sheets. His hair stuck out in all directions. His mouth was open, but he said nothing.

Then he started the low, mournful groan that only Mark had heard before. Dianne yanked her wrists free and picked him up. The nurses followed her into the room and they tucked him in the bed. They patted his arms and legs, but the groaning continued. Then the thumb went in his mouth and he closed his eyes. Dianne lay beside him in the bed and began humming “Winnie the Pooh” and patting his arm.

“Let’s go, kid,” Klickman said.

“You gonna handcuff me?”

“No. This is not an arrest.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“Watch your language, kid.”

“Kiss my ass, you big stupid jock.” Klickman stopped cold and glared down at Mark.

“Watch your mouth, kid,” Nassar warned.

“Look at your face, hotshot. I think it’s turning blue. Mom coldcocked you. Ha-ha. I hope she broke your teeth.”

Klickman bent over and put his hands on his knees. He stared Mark directly in the eyes. “Are you going with us, or shall we drag you out of here?”

Mark snorted and glared at him. “You think I’m scared of you, don’t you? Let me tell you something, meathead. I’ve got a lawyer who’ll have me out in ten
minutes. My lawyer is so good that by this afternoon you’ll be looking for another job.”

“I’m scared to death. Now let’s go.”

They started walking, a cop on each side of the defendant.

“Where are we going?”

“Juvenile Detention Center.”

“Is it sort of a jail?”

“It could be if you don’t watch your smart mouth.”

“You knocked my mother down, you know that. She’ll have your job for that.”

“She can have my job,” Klickman said. “It’s a rotten job because I have to deal with little punks like you.”

“Yeah, but you can’t find another one, can you? There’s no demand for idiots these days.”

They passed a small crowd of orderlies and nurses, and suddenly Mark was a star. The center of attention. He was an innocent man being led away to the slaughter. He swaggered a bit. They turned the corner, and then he remembered the reporters.

And they remembered him. A flash went off as they got to the elevators, and two of the loiterers with pencils and pads were suddenly standing next to Klickman. They waited for the elevator.

“Are you a cop?” one of them asked, staring at the glow-in-the-dark Nikes.

“No comment.”

“Hey, Mark, where you going?” another asked from just a few feet behind. There was another flash.

“To jail,” he said loudly without turning around.

“Shut up, kid,” Nassar scolded. Klickman put a heavy arm on his shoulder. The photographer was beside
them, almost to the elevator door. Nassar held up an arm to block his view. “Get away,” he growled.

“Are you under arrest, Mark?” one of them yelled.

“No,” Klickman snapped just as the door opened. Nassar shoved Mark inside while Klickman blocked the door until it started to close.

They were alone in the elevator. “That was a stupid thing to say, kid. Really stupid.” Klickman was shaking his head.

“Then arrest me.”

“Really stupid.”

“Is it against the law to talk to the press?”

“Just keep your mouth shut, okay?”