The Client (32 page)

“Do you expect to find the body of Senator Boyette before trial?”

“Yes. I think we’re getting close.”

“Is it true you were in Memphis just hours after Mr. Clifford shot himself?”

“Yes.” He sort of shrugged as if it was no big deal.

“There are news reports in Memphis that the kid who was with Mr. Clifford when he shot himself may know something about the Boyette case. Any truth to this?”

He smiled sheepishly, another trademark. When the answer was yes, but he couldn’t say it, but he
wanted to send the message anyway, he just grinned at the reporters and said, “I can’t comment on that.”

“I can’t comment on that,” he said, glancing around as if time was up and his busy trial calendar was calling.

“Does the boy know where the body is?”

“No comment,” he said with irritation. The rain grew harder, and splashed on his socks and shoes. “I have to be going.”

AFTER AN HOUR IN JAIL, MARK WAS READY TO ESCAPE. HE inspected both windows. The one above the lavatory had some wire in it, but that did not matter. What was troubling, though, was the fact that any object exiting through this window, including a boy, would fall directly down at least fifty feet, and the fall would be stopped by a concrete sidewalk lined with chain-link fencing and barbed wire. Also, both windows were thick and too small for escape, he determined.

He would be forced to make his break when they transported him, maybe take a hostage or two. He’d seen some great movies about jailbreaks. His favorite was
Escape from Alcatraz
with Clint Eastwood. He’d figure it out.

Doreen knocked on the door, jangled her keys, and stepped inside. She held a directory and a black phone, which she plugged into the wall. “It’s yours for ten minutes. No long distance.” Then she was gone, the door clicking loudly behind her, the cheap perfume floating heavy in the air and burning his eyes.

He found the number for St. Peter’s, asked for Room 943, and was informed that no calls were being put through to that room. Ricky’s asleep, he thought.
Must be bad. He found Reggie’s number, and listened to Clint’s voice on the recorder. He called Greenway’s office, and was informed the doctor was at the hospital. Mark explained exactly who he was, and the secretary said she believed the doctor was seeing Ricky. He called Reggie again. Same recording. He left an urgent message—“Get me out of jail, Reggie!” He called her home number, and listened to another recording.

He stared at the phone. With about seven minutes left, he had to do something. He flipped through the directory, and found the listings for the Memphis Police Department. He picked the North Precinct and dialed the number.

“Detective Klickman,” he said.

“Just a minute,” said the voice on the other end. He held for a few seconds, then a voice said, “Who’re you holding for?”

He cleared his throat and tried to sound gruff. “Detective Klickman.”

“He’s on duty.”

“When will he be in?”

“Around lunch.”

“Thanks.” Mark hung up quickly, and wondered if the lines were bugged. Probably not. After all, these phones were used by criminals and people like himself to call their lawyers and talk business. There had to be privacy.

He memorized the precinct phone number and address, then flipped to the Yellow Pages under Restaurants. He punched a number, and a friendly voice said, “Domino’s Pizza. May I take your order.”

He cleared his throat and tried to sound hoarse. “Yes, I’d like to order four of your large supremes.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Need them delivered at noon.”

“Your name?”

“I’m ordering them for Detective Klickman, North Precinct.”

“Delivered where?”

“North Precinct—3633 Allen Road. Just ask for Klickman.”

“We’ve been there before, believe me. Phone number?”

“It’s 555-8989.”

There was a short pause as the adding machine rang it up. “That’ll be forty-eight dollars and ten cents.”

“Fine. Don’t need it until noon.”

Mark hung up, his heart pounding. But he’d done it once, and he could do it again. He found the Pizza Hut numbers, there were seventeen in Memphis, and started placing orders. Three said they were too far away from downtown. He hung up on them. One young girl was suspicious, said he sounded too young, and he hung up on her too. But for the most part it was just routine business—call, place the order, give the address and phone number, and allow free enterprise to handle the rest.

When Doreen knocked on the door twenty minutes later, he was ordering Klickman some Chinese food from Wong Boys. He quickly hung up and walked to the bunks. She took great satisfaction in removing the phone, like taking toys away from bad little boys. But she was not quick enough. Detective Klickman had ordered about forty deep-dish supreme deluxe large pizzas and a dozen Chinese lunches, all to be delivered around noon, at a cost of somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred dollars.

*     *     *

FOR HIS HANGOVER, GRONKE SIPPED HIS FOURTH ORANGE juice of the morning and washed down another headache powder. He stood at the window of his hotel room, shoes off, belt unbuckled, shirt unbuttoned, and listened painfully as Jack Nance reported the disturbing news.

“Happened less than thirty minutes ago,” Nance said, sitting on the dresser, staring at the wall, trying to ignore this goon standing at the window with his back to him.

“Why?” Gronke grunted.

“Has to be youth court. They took him straight to jail. I mean, hell, they can’t just pick a kid, or anybody else for that matter, and take him straight to jail. They had to file something in youth court. Cal’s there now, checking it out. Maybe we’ll have it soon, I don’t know. Youth court records are locked up, I think.”

“Get the damned records, okay.”

Nance seethed but bit his tongue. He hated Gronke and his little band of cutthroats, and even though he needed the hundred bucks an hour he was tired of hanging around this dirty, smoky room like a flunky waiting to be barked at. He had other clients. Cal was a nervous wreck.

“We’re trying,” he said.

“Try harder,” Gronke said to the window. “Now I gotta call Barry and tell him the kid’s been taken away and there’s no way to get to him. Got him locked up somewhere, probably with a cop sittin’ outside his door.” He finished the orange juice and tossed the can in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed and rattled along the wall. He glared at Nance.
“Barry’ll wanna know if there’s a way to get the kid. What would you suggest?”

“I suggest you leave the kid alone. This is not New Orleans, and this is not just some little punk you can rub out and make everything wonderful. This kid’s got baggage, lots of it. People are watching him. If you do something stupid, you’ll have a hundred fibbies all over your ass. You won’t be able to breathe, and you and Mr. Muldanno will rot in jail. Here, not New Orleans.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gronke waved both hands at him in disgust and walked back to the window. “I want you boys to keep watching him. If they move him anywhere, I wanna know it immediately. If they take him to court, I wanna know it. Figure it out, Nance. This is your city. You know the streets and alleys. At least you’re supposed to. You’re gettin’ paid good money.”

“Yes sir,” Nance said loudly, then left the room.

     23     

FOR TWO HOURS EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, REGGIE DISAPPEARED into the office of Dr. Elliot Levin, her longtime psychiatrist. Levin had been holding her hand for ten years. He was the architect who’d figured out the pieces and helped her put the puzzle back together. Their sessions were never disturbed.

Clint paced nervously in Levin’s reception area. Dianne had called twice already. She had read the summons and petition to him over the phone. He had called Judge Roosevelt, and the detention center, and Levin’s office, and now he waited impatiently for eleven o’clock. The receptionist tried to ignore him.

REGGIE WAS SMILING WHEN DR. LEVIN FINISHED WITH HER. She pecked him on the cheek, and they walked hand in hand into his plush reception area, where Clint was waiting. She stopped smiling. “What’s the matter?” she asked, certain something terrible had happened.

“We need to go,” Clint said, taking her arm and
ushering her through the door. She nodded good-bye to Levin, who was watching with interest and concern.

They were on a sidewalk next to a small parking lot. “They’ve picked up Mark Sway. He’s in custody.”

“What! Who!”

“Cops. A petition was filed this morning alleging Mark to be a delinquent, and Roosevelt issued an order to take him into custody.” Clint was pointing. “Let’s take your car. I’ll drive.”

“Who filed the petition?”

“Foltrigg. Dianne called from the hospital, that’s where they got him. She had a big fight with the cops, and scared Ricky again. I’ve talked to her and assured her you’ll go get Mark.”

They opened and slammed doors to Reggie’s car, and sped from the parking lot. “Roosevelt’s scheduled a hearing for noon,” Clint explained.

“Noon! You must be kidding. That’s fifty-six minutes from now.”

“It’s an expedited hearing. I talked to him about an hour ago, and he wouldn’t comment on the petition. Had very little to say, really. Where are we going?”

She thought about this for a second. “He’s in the detention center, and I can’t get him out. Let’s go to Juvenile Court. I want to see the petition, and I want to see Harry Roosevelt. This is absurd, a hearing within hours of filing the petition. The law says between three and seven days, not three and seven hours.”

“But isn’t there a provision for expedited hearings?”

“Yeah, but only in extreme matters. They’ve fed Harry a bunch of crap. Delinquent! What’s the kid
done? This is crazy. They’re trying to force him to talk, Clint, that’s all.”

“So you didn’t expect this?”

“Of course not. Not here, not in Juvenile Court. I’ve thought about a grand jury summons for Mark from New Orleans, but not Juvenile Court. He’s committed no delinquent act. He doesn’t deserve to be taken in.”

“Well, they got him.”

*     *     *

JASON MCTHUNE ZIPPED HIS PANTS, AND HIT THE LEVER three times before the antique urinal flushed. The bowl was stained with streaks of brown and the floor was wet, and he thanked God he worked in the Federal Building, where everything was polished and spiffy. He’d lay asphalt with a shovel before he’d work in Juvenile Court.

But he was here now, like it or not, wasting time on the Boyette case because K. O. Lewis wanted him here. And K.O. took orders from Mr. F. Denton Voyles, director of the FBI for forty-two years now. And in his forty-two years, no member of Congress and certainly no U.S. senator had been murdered. And the fact that the late Boyd Boyette had been hidden so neatly was galling. Mr. Voyles was quite upset, not about the killing itself but about the FBI’s inability to solve it completely.

McThune had a strong hunch Ms. Reggie Love would arrive shortly, since her client had been snatched away from right under her nose, and he figured she’d be fuming when he saw her. Maybe she’d understand that these legal strategies were being hatched in New Orleans, not Memphis, and certainly not in his office.
Surely she would understand that he, McThune, was just a humble FBI agent taking orders from above and doing what the lawyers told him. Perhaps he could dodge her until they were all in the courtroom.

Perhaps not. As McThune opened the rest room door and stepped into the hallway, he was suddenly face-to-face with Reggie Love. Clint was a step behind her. She saw him immediately, and within seconds he was backed against the wall and she was in his face. She was agitated.

“Morning, Ms. Love,” he said, forcing a calm smile.

“It’s Reggie, McThune.”

“Morning, Reggie.”

“Who’s here with you?” she asked, glaring.

“Beg your pardon.”

“Your gang, your little band, your little group of government conspirators. Who’s here?”

This was not a secret. He could discuss this with her. “George Ord, Thomas Fink from New Orleans, K. O. Lewis.”

“Who’s K. O. Lewis?”

“Deputy director, FBI. From D.C.”

“What’s he doing here?” Her questions were clipped and rapid, and aimed like arrows at McThune’s eyes. He was pinned to the wall, afraid to move, but gallantly trying to appear nonchalant. If Fink or Ord or heaven forbid K. O. Lewis happened into the hallway and saw him huddled with her like this he’d never recover.

“Well, I, uh—”

“Don’t make me mention the tape, McThune,” she said, mentioning the damned thing anyway. “Just tell me the truth.”

Clint was standing behind her, holding her briefcase and watching the traffic. He appeared a bit surprised by this confrontation and the speed with which it was occurring. McThune shrugged as if he’d forgotten about the tape, and now that she mentioned it, what the hell. “I think Foltrigg’s office called Mr. Lewis and asked him to come down. That’s all.”

“That’s all? Did you guys have a little meeting with Judge Roosevelt this morning?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Didn’t bother to call me, did you?”

“Uh, the judge said he’d call you.”

“I see. Are you planning to testify during this little hearing?” She took a step back when she asked this and McThune breathed easier.

“I’ll testify if I’m called as a witness.”

She stuck a finger in his face. The nail on the end of it was long, curved, carefully manicured, and painted red, and McThune watched it fearfully. “You stick with the facts, okay. One lie, however small, or one bit of unsolicited self-serving crap to the judge, or one cheap-shot remark that hurts my client, and I’ll slice your throat, McThune. You understand?”

He kept smiling, glancing up and down the hall as if she were a pal and they were just having a tiny disagreement. “I understand,” he said, grinning.

Reggie turned and walked away with Clint by her side. McThune turned and darted back into the rest room, though he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to follow him in if she wanted something.

“What was that all about?” Clint asked.

“Just keeping him honest.” They wove through crowds of litigants—paternity defendants, delinquent
fathers, kids in trouble—and their lawyers huddled in small packs along the hallway.