"What happened?" Mark asked. He felt sorry for this guy.
"Car wreck. Drunk driver. My boy was thrown out of the car."
"Where is he?"
"ICU, first floor. I had to leave and get away. It's a zoo down there, people screaming and crying all the time."
"I'm very sorry."
"He's only eight years old." He appeared to be crying, but Mark couldn't tell.
"My little brother's eight. He's in a room around the corner."
"What's wrong with him?" the man asked without looking.
"He's in shock."
"What happened?"
"It's a long story. And getting longer. He'll make it, though. I sure hope your kid pulls through."
Jack Nance looked at his watch and suddenly stood. "Me too. I need to go check on him. Good luck to you, uh, what's your name?"
"Mark Sway."
"Good luck, Mark. I gotta run." He walked to the elevators and disappeared.
Mark took his place on the couch, and within minutes was asleep.
14
The photos on the front page of wednesday's edition of the Memphis Press had been lifted from the yearbook at Willow Road Elementary School. They were a year old-Mark was in the fourth grade and Ricky the first. They were next to each other on the bottom third of the page, and under the cute, smiling faces were the names. Mark Sway. Ricky Sway. To the left was a story about Jerome Clifford's suicide and the bizarre aftermath in which the boys we're involved. It was written by Slick Moeller, and he had pieced together a suspicious little story. The FBI was involved; Ricky was in shock; Mark had called 911 but hadn't given his name; the police had tried to interrogate Mark but he hadn't talked yet; the family had hired a lawyer, one Reggie Love (female); Mark's fingerprints were all over the inside of the car, including the gun. The story made Mark look like a cold-blooded killer.
Karen brought it to him around six as he sat in an empty semiprivate room directly across the hall from Ricky's. Mark was watching cartoons and trying to nap. Greenway wanted everyone out of the room except Ricky and Dianne. An hour earlier, Ricky had opened his eyes and asked to use the bathroom. He was back in the bed now, mumbling about nightmares and eating ice cream.
"You've hit the big time," Karen said as she handed him the front section and put his orange juice on the table.
"What is it?" he asked, suddenly staring at his face in black and white. "Damn!"
"Just a little story. I'd like your autograph when you have time."
Very funny. She left the room and he read it slowly. Reggie had told him about the fingerprints and the note. He'd dreamed about the gun, but through a legitimate lapse in memory had forgotten about touching the whiskey bottle.
There was something unfair here. He was just a kid who'd been minding his own business, and now suddenly his picture was on the front page and fingers were pointed at him. How can a newspaper dig up old yearbook photos and run them whenever it chooses? Wasn't he entitled to a little privacy?
He threw the paper to the floor and walked to the •window. It was dawn, drizzling outside, and downtown Memphis was slowly coming to life. Standing in the window of the empty room, looking at the blocks of tall buildings, he felt completely alone. Within an hour, a half million people would be awake, reading about Mark and Ricky Sway while sipping their coffee and eating their toast. The dark buildings would soon be filled with busy people gathering around desks and coffeepots, and they would gossip and speculate wildly about him and what happened with the dead lawyer. Surely the kid was in the car. There are fingerprints everywhere! How did the kid get in the car? How did he get out? They would read Slick Moeller's story as if every word were true, as if Slick had the inside dope.
It was not fair for a kid to read about himself on the front page and not have parents to hide behind. Any kid in this mess needed the protection of a father and the sole affection of a mother. He needed a shield against cops and FBI agents and reporters, and, God forbid, the mob. Here he was, eleven years old, alone, lying, then telling the truth, then lying some more, never certain what to do next. The truth can get you killed-he'd seen that in a movie one time, and always remembered it when he felt the urge to lie to someone in authority. How could he get out of this mess?
He retrieved the paper from the floor and entered the hall. Greenway had stuck a note on Ricky's door forbidding anyone from entering, including nurses. Di-anne was having back pains from sitting in his bed and rocking, and Greenway had ordered another round of pills for her discomfort.
Mark stopped at the nurses' station, and handed the paper to Karen. "Nice story, huh," she said with a smile. The romance was gone. She was still beautiful but now playing hard to get, and he just didn't have the energy.
"I'm going to get a doughnut," he said. "You want one?"
"No thanks."
He walked to the elevators and pushed the call button. The middle door opened and he stepped in.
At that precise second, Jack Nance turned in the darkness of the waiting room and whispered into his radio.
The elevator was empty. It was just a few minutes past six, a good half an hour before the rush hit. The elevator stopped at floor number eight. The door opened, and one man stepped in. He wore a white lab jacket, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Mark did not look at his face. He was tired of meeting new people.
The door closed, and suddenly the man grabbed Mark and pinned him in a corner. He clenched his fingers around Mark's throat. The man fell to one knee and pulled something from a pocket. His face was inches from Mark's, and it was a horrible face. He was breathing heavy. "Listen to me, Mark Sway," he growled. Something clicked in his right hand, and suddenly a shiny switchblade entered the picture. A very long switchblade. "I don't know what Jerome Clifford told you," he said urgently. The elevator was moving. "But if you repeat a single word of it to anyone, including your lawyer, I'll kill you. And I'll kill your mother and your little brother. Okay? He's in Room 943. I've seen the trailer where you live. Okay? I've seen your school at Willow Road." His breath was warm and had the smell of creamed coffee, and he aimed it directly at Mark's eyes. "Do you understand me?" he sneered with a nasty smile.
The elevator stopped, and the man was on his feet by the door with the switchblade hidden by his leg. Although Mark was paralyzed, he was able to hope and pray that someone would get on the damned elevator with him. It was obvious he was not getting off at this point. They waited ten seconds at the sixth floor, and nobody entered. The doors closed, and they were moving again.
The man lunged at him again, this time with the switchblade an inch or two from Mark's nose. He pinned him in the corner with a heavy forearm, and suddenly jabbed the shiny blade at Mark's waist. Quickly and efficiently, he cut a belt loop. Then a second one. He'd already delivered his message, without interruption, and now it was time for a little reinforcement.
"I'll slice your guts out, do you understand me?" he demanded, and then released Mark.
Mark nodded. A lump the size of a golf ball clogged his dry throat, and suddenly his eyes were wet. He nodded yes, yes, yes.
"I'll kill you. Do you believe me?"
Mark stared at the knife, and nodded some more. "And if you tell anyone about me, I'll get you. Understand?" Mark kept nodding, only faster now.
The man slid the knife into a pocket and pulled a folded eight by ten color photograph from under the lab jacket. He stuck it in Mark's face. "You seen this before?" he asked, smiling now.
It was a department store portrait taken when Mark was in the second grade, and for years now it had hung in the den above the television. Mark stared at it.
"Recognize it?" the man barked at him.
Mark nodded. There was only one such photograph in the world.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and the man moved quickly, again by the door. At the last second, two nurses stepped in, and Mark finally breathed. He stayed in the corner, holding the railings, praying for a miracle. The switchblade had come c
loser with each assault, and he simply could not take another one. On the third floor, three more people entered and stood between Mark and the man with the knife. In an instant, Mark's assailant was gone; through the door as it was closing.
"Are you okay?" A nurse was staring at him, frowning and very concerned. The elevator kicked and started down. She touched his forehead and felt a layer of sweat between her fingers. His eyes were wet. "You look pale," she said.
"I'm okay," he mumbled weakly, holding the railings for support.
Another nurse looked down at him in the corner. They studied his face with much concern. "Are you sure?"
He nodded, and the elevator door suddenly opened on the second floor. He darted through bodies and was in a narrow corridor dodging gurneys and wheelchairs. His well-worn Nike hightops squeaked on the clean linoleum as he ran to a door with an EXIT sign over it. He pushed through the door, and was in the stairwell. He grabbed the rails and started up, two steps at a time, churning and churning. The pain hit his thighs at the sixth floor, but he ran harder. He passed a doctor on the eighth floor, but never slowed. He ran, climbing the mountain at a record pace until the stairwell stopped on the fifteenth floor. He collapsed on a landing under a fire hose, and sat in the semidarkness until the sun filtered through a tiny painted window above him.
Pursuant to his agreement with Reggie, Clint opened the office at exactly eight, and after turning on the lights, made the coffee. It was Wednesday, southern pecan day. He looked through the countless one-pound bags of coffee beans in the refrigerator until he found southern pecan, and measured four perfect scoops into the grinder. She would know in an instant if he'd missed the measurement by half a teaspoon. She would take the first sip like a wine connoisseur, smack her lips like a rabbit, then pass judgment on the coffee. He added the precise quantity of water, flipped the switch, and waited for the first black drops to hit the canister. The aroma was delicious.
Clint enjoyed the coffee almost as much as his boss did, and the meticulous routine of making it was only half-serious. They began each morning with a quiet cup as they planned the day and talked about the mail. They had met in a detox center eleven years earlier when she was forty-one and he was seventeen. They had started law school at the same time, but he flunked out after a nasty round with coke. He'd been perfectly clean for five years, she for six. They had leaned on each other many times.
He sorted the mail and placed it carefully on her clean desk. He poured his first cup of coffee in the kitchen, and read with great interest the front-page story about her newest client. As usual, Slick had his facts. And, as usual, the facts were stretched with a good dose of innuendo thrown in. The boys favored each other, but Ricky's hair was a shade lighter. He smiled with several teeth missing.
Clint placed the front page in the center of Reggie's desk.
Unless she was expected in court, reggie seldom made it to the office before 9 A.M. She was a slow starter who usually hit her stride around four in the afternoon and preferred to work late.
Her mission as a lawyer was to protect abused and neglected children, and she did this with great skill and passion. The juvenile courts routinely called her for indigent work representing kids who needed lawyers but didn't know it. She was a zealous advocate for small clients who could not say thanks. She had sued fathers for molesting daughters. She had sued uncles for raping their nieces. She had sued mothers for abusing their babies. She had investigated parents for exposing their children to drugs. She served as legal guardian for more than twenty children. And she worked the Juvenile Court as appointed counsel for kids in trouble with the law. She performed pro bono work for children in need of commitment to mental facilities. The money was adequate, but not important. She had money once, lots of it, and it had brought nothing but misery.
She sipped the southern pecan, pronounced it good, and planned the day with Clint. It was a ritual adhered to whenever possible.
As she picked up the newspaper, the buzzer rang as the door opened. Clint jumped to answer it. He found Mark Sway standing in the reception room, wet from the drizzle and out of breath.
"Good morning, Mark. You're all wet."
"I need to see Reggie." His bangs stuck to his forehead and water dripped from his nose. He was in a daze.
"Sure." Clint backed away from him, and returned with a hand towel from the rest room. He wiped Mark's face, and said, "Follow me."
Reggie was waiting in the center of her office. Clint closed the door and left them alone.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I think we need to talk." She pointed, and he sat in a wingback chair and she sat on the sofa.
"What's going on, Mark?" His eyes were red and tired. He stared at the flowers on the coffee table.
"Ricky snapped out of it early this morning."
"That's great. What time?"
"A couple of hours ago."
"You look tired. Would you like some hot cocoa?"
"No. Did you see the paper this morning?"
"Yeah, I saw it. Does it scare you?"
"Of course it scares me." Clint knocked on the door, then opened it and brought the hot cocoa anyway. Mark thanked him and held it with both hands. He was cold and the warm cup helped. Clint closed the door and was gone.
"When do we meet with the FBI?" he asked.
"In an hour. Why?"
He sipped the cocoa and it burned his tongue. "I'm not sure I want to talk to them."
"Okay. You don't have to, you know. I've explained all this."
"I know. Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Mark. You look scared."
"It's been a rough morning." He took another tiny sip, then another. "What would happen to me if I never told anyone what I know?"
"You've told me."
"Yeah, but you can't tell. And I haven't told you everything, right?"
"That's right."
"I've told you that I know where the body is, but I haven't told-"
"I know, Mark. I don't know where it is. There's a big difference, and I certainly understand it."
"Do you want to know?"
"Do you want to tell me?"
"Not really. Not now."
She was relieved but didn't show it. "Okay, then I don't want to know."
"So what happens to me if I never tell?"
She'd thought about this for hours, and still had no answer. But she'd met Foltrigg, had watched him under pressure, and was convinced he would try all legal means to extract the information from her client. As much as she wanted to, she could not advise him to lie.
A lie would work just fine. One simple lie, and Mark Sway could live the rest of his life without regard to what happened in New Orleans. And why should he worry about Muldanno and Foltrigg and the late Boyd Boyette? He was just a kid, guilty of neither crime nor major sin.
"I think that an effort will be made to force you to talk."
"How does it work?"
"I'm not sure. It's very rare, but I believe steps can be taken in court to force you to testify about what you know. Clint and I have been researching it."
"I know what Clifford told me, but I don't know if it's the truth."
"But you think it's the truth, don't you, Mark?"
"I think so, I guess. I don't know wha.t to do." He was mumbling softly, at times barely audible, unwilling to look at her. "Can they make me talk?" he asked.
She answered carefully. "It could happen. I mean, a lot of things could happen. But, yes, a judge in a courtroom one day soon could order you to talk."
"And if I refused?"
"Good question, Mark. It's a gray area. If an adult refuses a court order, he's in contempt of court and runs the risk of being locked up. I don't know what they'd do with a child. I've never heard of it before."
"What about a polygraph?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, let's say they drag me into court, and the judge tells me to spill my guts, and I tell the story but leave out the mo
st important part. And they think I'm lying. What then? Can they strap me in the chair and start asking questions? I saw it in a movie one time."
"You saw a child take a polygraph?"
"No. It was some cop who got caught lying. But, I mean, can they do it to me?"
"I doubt it. I've never heard of it, and I'd be fighting like crazy to stop it."
"But it could happen."
"I'm not sure. I doubt it." These were hard questions coming at her like gunfire, and she had to be careful. Clients often heard what they wanted to hear and missed the rest. "But I must warn you, Mark, if you lie in court you could be in big trouble."
He thought about this for a second, and said, "If I tell the truth I'm in bigger trouble."
"Why?"
She waited a long time for a response. Every twenty seconds or so, he would take a sip of the cocoa, but he was not at all interested in answering this question. The silence did not bother him. He stared at the table, but his mind whirled away somewhere else.
"Mark, last night you indicated you were ready to talk to the FBI and tell them your story. Now it's obvious you've changed your mind. Why? What's happened?"
Without a word, he gently placed the cup on the table and covered his eyes with his fists. His chin dropped to his chest, and he started crying.
The door opened into the reception area and a federal Express lady ran in with a box three inches thick. All smiles and perfect efficiency, she handed it to Clint and showed him where to sign. She thanked him, wished him a nice day, and vanished.
The package was expected. It was from Print Research, an amazing little outfit in D.C. that did nothing but scan two hundred daily newspapers nationwide and catalogue the stories. The news was clipped, copied, computerized, and readily available within twenty-four hours for those willing to pay. Reggie didn't want to pay, but she needed quick background on Boyette et al. Clint had placed the order yesterday, as soon as Mark left and Reggie had herself a new client. The search was limited to the New Orleans and Washington papers.
He removed the contents, a neat stack of eight and a half by eleven Xerox copies of newspaper stories, headlines, and photos, all arranged in perfect chronological order, all copied with the columns straight and the photos clean.
Grisham, John - The Client Page 15
