Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  Boyette was an old Democrat from New Orleans, and he'd served several terms as an undistinguished rank and file member of the U.S. House, when one day Senator Dauvin, an antebellum relic from the Civil War, suddenly died in office at the age of ninety-one. Boyette pulled strings and twisted arms, and in keeping with the great tradition of Louisiana politics rounded up some cash and found a home for it. He was appointed by the governor to fill the unexpired portion of Dauvin's term. The theory was simple: If a man had enough sense to accumulate a bunch of cash, then he would certainly make a worthy U.S. senator.

  Boyette became a member of the world's most exclusive club, and with time proved himself quite capable. Over the years he narrowly missed a few indictments, and evidently learned his lessons. He survived two close reelections, and finally reached a point attained by most southern senators where he was simply left alone. When this happened, Boyette slowly mellowed, and changed from a hell-raising segregationist to a rather liberal and open-minded statesman. He lost favor with three straight governors in Louisiana, and in doing so became an outcast with the petroleum and chemical companies that had ruined the ecology of the state.

  So Boyd Boyette became a radical environmentalist; something unheard of among southern politicians. He railed against the oil and gas industry, and it vowed to defeat him. He held hearings in small bayou towns devastated by the oil boom and bust, and made enemies in the tall buildings in New Orleans. Senator Boyette embraced the crumbling ecology of his beloved state, and studied it with a passion.

  Six years ago, someone in New Orleans had floated out a proposal to build a toxic waste dump in Lafourche Parish, about eighty miles southwest of New Orleans. It was quickly killed for the first time by local authorities. As is true with most ideas created by rich corporate minds, it didn't go away, but rather came back a year later with a different name, a different set of consultants, new promises of local jobs, and a new mouthpiece doing the presenting. It was voted down by the locals for the second time, but the vote was much closer. A year passed, some money changed hands, cosmetic changes were made to the plans, and it was suddenly back on the agenda. The folks who lived around the site were hysterical. Rumors were rampant, especially a persistent one that the New Orleans mob was behind the dump and would not stop until it was a reality. Of course, millions were at stake.

  The New Orleans papers did a credible job of linking the mob to the toxic waste site. A dozen corporations were involved, and names and addresses led to several known and undisputed crime figures.

  The stage was set, the deal was done, the dump was to be approved, then Senator Boyd Boyette came crashing in with an army of federal regulators. He threatened investigations by a dozen agencies. He held weekly press conferences. He made speeches all over southern Louisiana. The advocates of the waste site ran for cover. The corporations issued terse statements of no comment. Boyette had them on the ropes, and he was enjoying himself immensely.

  On the night of his disappearance, the senator had attended an angry meeting of local citizens at a packed high school gymnasium in Houma. He left late, and alone, as was his custom, for the hour drive to his home near New Orleans. Years earlier, Boyette had grown weary of the constant small talk and incessant ass kissing of aides, and he preferred to drive by himself whenever possible. He was studying Russian, his fourth language, and he cherished the solitude of his Cadillac and the language tapes.

  By noon the next day, it was determined the senator was missing. The splashy headlines from New Orleans told the story. Bold headlines in the Washington Post suspected foul play. Days went by and the news was scarce. No body was found. A hundred old photos of the senator were dug up and used by the newspapers. The story was becoming old when, suddenly, the name of Barry Muldanno was linked to the disappearance and this set off a frenzy of Mafia dirt and trash. A rather frightening mug shot of a young Muldanno ran on page one in New Orleans. The paper rehashed its earlier stories about the waste site and the mob. The Blade •was a known hit man with a criminal record. And on and on.

  Roy Foltrigg made a grand entrance into the story when he stepped in front of the cameras to announce the indictment of Barry Muldanno for the murder of Senator Boyd Boyette. He, too, got the front page in both New Orleans and Washington, and Clint remembered a similar photo in the Memphis paper. Big news, but no body. This, however, did not throttle Mr. Foltrigg. He ranted against organized crime. He predicted certain victory. He preached his carefully prepared remarks with the flair of a veteran stage actor, shouting at all the right moments, pointing his finger, waving the indictment. He had no comment about the absence of a corpse, but hinted that he knew something he couldn't tell and said he had no doubt the remains of the late senator would be found.

  There were pictures and stories when Barry Muldanno was arrested, or rather, turned himself in to the FBI. He spent three days in jail before bail was arranged, and there were photos of him leaving just as he had arrived. He wore a dark suit and smiled at the cameras. He was innocent, he proclaimed. It was a vendetta.

  There were photos of bulldozers, taken from a distance, as the FBI trenched its way through the soggy soil of New Orleans, searching for the body. More of Foltrigg performing for the press. More investigative reports of New Orleans's rich history of organized crime. The story seemed to lose steam as the search continued.

  The governor, a Democrat, appointed a crony to serve the remaining year and a half of Boyette's term. The New Orleans paper ran an analysis of the many politicians waiting eagerly to run for the Senate. Foltrigg was one of two Republicans rumored to be interested.

  He sat next to her on the sofa, and wiped his eyes.

  He hated himself for crying, but it could not be helped. Her arm was around his shoulder, and she patted him gently.

  "You don't have to say a word," she repeated quietly.

  "I really don't want to. Maybe later, if I have to, but not now. Okay?"

  "Okay, Mark."

  There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Reggie said just loud enough to be heard. Clint appeared holding a stack of papers and looking at his watch.

  "Sorry to interrupt. But it's almost ten, and Mr. Foltrigg will be here in a minute." He placed the papers on the coffee table in front of her. "You wanted to see these before the meeting."

  "Tell Mr. Foltrigg we have nothing to discuss," Reggie said.

  Clint frowned at her and looked at Mark. He sat close to her as if he needed protecting. "You're not going to see him?"

  "No. Tell him the meeting's been canceled because we have nothing to say," she said, and nodded at Mark.

  Clint glanced at his watch again and backed awkwardly to the door. "Sure," he said with a smile as if he suddenly enjoyed the idea of telling Foltrigg to take a hike. He closed the door behind him.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "Not really."

  She leaned forward and began flipping through the copies of the clippings. Mark sat in a daze, tired and drained, still frightened after talking things over with his lawyer. She scanned the pages, reading the headlines and captions and pulling the photographs closer to her. About a third of the way through, she suddenly stopped and leaned back on the sofa. She handed Mark a close-up of Barry Muldanno as he smiled at the camera. It was from the New Orleans paper. "Is this the man?"

  Mark looked without touching it. "No. Who is it?"

  "It's Barry Muldanno."

  "That's not the man who grabbed me. I guess he's got a lot of friends."

  She placed the copy in the stack on the coffee table, and patted him on the leg.

  "What're you gonna do?" he asked.

  "Make a few calls. I'll talk to the administrator of the hospital and arrange security around Ricky's room."

  "You can't tell him about this guy, Reggie. They'll kill us. We can't tell anybody."

  "I won't. I'll explain to the hospital that there have been some threats. It's routine in criminal cases.

  They'll place a few guards on the ninth floo
r around the room."

  "I don't want to tell Mom either. She's stressed out with Ricky, and she's taking pills to sleep and pills to do this and that, and I just don't think she can handle this right now."

  "You're right." He was a tough little kid, raised on the streets and wise beyond his years. She admired his courage.

  "Do you think Mom and Ricky are safe?"

  "Of course. These men are professionals, Mark. They won't do anything stupid. They'll lay low and listen. They may be bluffing." She did not sound sincere.

  "No, they're not bluffing. I saw the knife, Reggie. They're here in Memphis for one reason, and that's to scare the hell out of me. And it's working. I ain't talk-ing."

  15

  Foltrigg yelled only once, then stormed from the office making threats and slamming the door. McThune and Trumann were frustrated, but also embarrassed at his antics. As they left, McThune rolled his eyes at Clint as if he wanted to apologize for this pompous loudmouth. Clint relished the moment, and -when the dust settled he walked to Reggie's office.

  Mark had pulled a chair to the window, and sat watching it rain on the street and sidewalk below. Reggie was on the phone with the hospital administrator discussing security on the ninth floor. She covered the phone, and Clint whispered that they were gone. He left to get more cocoa for Mark, who never moved.

  Within minutes, Clint took a call from George Ord, and he buzzed Reggie on the intercom. She'd never met the U.S. attorney from Memphis, but was not surprised that he was now on the phone. She allowed him to hold for one full minute, then picked up the phone. "Hello."

  "Ms. Love, this is-"

  "It's Reggie, okay. Just Reggie. And you're George, right?" She called everyone by their first name, even stuffy judges in their proper little courtrooms.

  "Right, Reggie. This is George Ord. Roy Foltrigg is in my office, and-"

  "What a coincidence. He just left mine."

  "Yeah, and that's why I'm calling. He didn't get a chance to talk to you and your client."

  "Give him my apologies. My client has nothing to say to him." She was talking and looking at the back of Mark's head. If he were listening, she couldn't tell. He was frozen in the chair at the window.

  "Reggie, I think it would be wise if you at least meet with Mr. Foltrigg again."

  "I have no desire to meet with Roy, nor does my client." She could picture Ord speaking gravely into the phone with Foltrigg pacing around the office waving his arms.

  "Well, this will not be the end of it, you know?"

  "Is that a threat, George?"

  "It's more of a promise."

  "Fine. You tell Roy and his boys that if anyone attempts to contact my client or his family I'll have their asses. Okay, George?"

  "I'll relay the message."

  It was really sort of funny-it was not, after all, his case-but Ord could not laugh. He returned the receiver to its place, smiled to himself, and said, "She says she ain't talking, the kid ain't talking, and if you or anyone else contacts the kid or his family she'll, uh, have your asses, as she put it."

  Foltrigg bit his lip and nodded at every word as if this were fine because he could play hardball with the best of ^hem. He had regained his composure and was already implementing Plan B. He paced around the office as ff in deep thought. McThune and Trumann stood bv the door like sentries. Bored sentries.

  "I want the kid followed, okay," Foltrigg finally snappec at McThune. "We're leaving for New Orleans, and I want you guys to tail him twenty-four hours a day. I ^ant to know what he does, and, more importantly, me needs to be protected from Muldanno and his henchmen."

  McThune did not take orders from any U.S. attorney, and at this moment he was sick of Roy Foltrigg. And the idea of using three or four overworked agents to follow an eleven-year-old kid was quite stupid. But, it was not worth the fight. Foltrigg had a hot line to Director Voyles in Washington, and Director Voyles wanted the body and he wanted a conviction almost as bad as Foltrigg did.

  "Okay," he said. "We'll get it done."

  "Paul Gronke's already here somewhere," Foltrigg said as though he'd just heard fresh gossip. They knew the flight number and his 'time of arrival eleven hours ago. They had, however, managed to lose his trail once he left the Memphis airport. They had discussed it with Ord and Foltrigg and a dozen other FBI agents for two hours this morning. At this very moment, no less than eight agents were trying to find Gronke in Memphis.

  "We'll find him," McThune said. "And we'll watch the kid. Why don't you get your ass back to New Orleans."

  "I'll get the van ready," Trumann said officially as if the van were in fact Air Force One.

  Foltrigg stopped pacing in front of Ord's desk.

  "We're leaving, George. Sorry for the intrusion. I'll probably be back in a couple of days."

  What wonderful news, Ord thought. He stood, and they shook hands. "Anytime," he said. "If we can help, just call."

  "I'll meet with Judge Lamond first thing in the morning. I'll let you know."

  Ord offered his hand again for one final shake. Foltrigg took it and headed for the door. "Watch out for these thugs," he advised McThune. "I don't think he's dumb enough to touch the kid, but who knows." McThune opened the door and waved him through. Ord followed.

  "Muldanno's heard something," Foltrigg continued, "and they're just snooping around here." He was in the outer office where Wally Boxx and Thomas Fink waited. "But keep an eye on them, okay, George? These guys are really dangerous. And follow the kid, too, and watch his lawyer. And thanks a million. I'll call you tomorrow. Where's the van, Wally?"

  After an hour of watching the sidewalks, sipping hot

  cocoa, and listening to his lawyer practice law, Mark was ready for a move. Reggie had called Dianne and explained that Mark was in her office killing time and helping with the paperwork. Ricky was much better, sleeping again. He'd consumed half a gallon of ice cream while Greenway asked him a hundred questions. At eleven, Mark parked himself at Clint's desk and inspected the dictating equipment. Reggie had a client, a woman who desperately wanted a divorce, and they needed to plot strategy for an hour. Clint typed away on long paper and grabbed the phone every five minutes.

  "How'd you become a secretary?" Mark asked, very bored with this candid view of the practice of law.

  Clint turned and smiled at him. "It was an accident."

  "Did you want to be a secretary when you were a kid?"

  "No. I wanted to build swimming pools."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. I got messed up on drugs, almost flunked out of high school, then went to college, then went to law school."

  "You have to go to law school to be a secretary in a law office?"

  "No. I flunked out of law school, and Reggie gave me a job. It's fun, most of the time."

  "Where'd you meet Reggie?"

  "It's a long story. We were friends in law school. We've been friends for a long time. She'll probably tell you about it when you meet Momma Love."

  "Momma who?"

  "Momma Love. She hasn't told you about Momma Love?"

  "No."

  "Momma Love is Reggie's mother. They live together, and she loves to cook for the kids Reggie represents. She fixes inside-out ravioli and spinach lasagna and all sorts of delicious Italian food. Everyone loves it."

  After two days of doughnuts and green Jell-O, the mention of thick, cheesy dishes cooked at someone's home was terribly inviting. "When do you think I might meet Momma Love?"

  "I don't know. Reggie takes most ot her clients home, especially the younger ones."

  "Does she have any kids?"

  "Two, but they're grown and live away."

  "Where does Momma Love live?"

  "In midtown, not far from here. It's an old house she's owned for years. In fact, it's the house Reggie grew up in."

  The phone rang. Clint took the message and returned to his typewriter. Mark watched intently.

  "How'd you learn to type so fast?"

&nbs
p; The typing stopped, and he slowly turned and looked at Mark. He smiled, and said, "In high school. I had this teacher who was like a drill sergeant. We hated her, but she made us learn. Can you type?"

  "A little. I've had three years of computer at school."

  Clint pointed to his Apple next to the typewriter. "We've got all sorts of computers around here."

  Mark glanced at it, but was not impressed. Everybody had computers. "So how'd you get to be a secretary?"

  "It wasn't planned. When Reggie finished law school, she didn't want to work for anybody, so she opened this office. It was about four years ago. She needed a secretary, and I volunteered. Have you seen a male secretary before?"

  "No. Didn't know men could be secretaries. How's the money?"

  Clint chuckled at this. "It's okay. If Reggie has a good month, then I have a good month. We're sort of like partners."

  "Does she make a lot of money?"

  "Not really. She doesn't want a lot of money. A few years ago she was married to a doctor, and they had a big house and lots of money. Everything went to hell, and she blames the money for most of it. She'll probably tell you about it. She's very honest about her life."

  "She's a lawyer and she doesn't want money?"

  "Unusual, isn't it?"

  "I'll say. I mean, I've seen a lot of lawyer shows on television, and all they do is talk about-money. Sex and money."

  The phone rang. It was a judge, and Clint got real nice and chatted with him for five minutes. He hung up and returned to his typing. As he reached full speed, Mark asked, "Who's that woman in there?"

  Clint stopped, stared at the keys, and slowly turned around. His chair squeaked. He forced a quick smile. "In there with Reggie?"

  "Yeah."

  "Norma Thrash."

  "What's her problem?"

  "She's got a bunch of them, really. She's in the middle of a nasty divorce. Husband's a real jerk."