Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  "I couldn't read the note," Foltrigg interrupted, dying to say something. "The fax was bad." He said this as if McThune and the Memphis FBI were inept because he, Roy Foltrigg, had received a bad fax in his van.

  McThune glanced at Larry Trumann and Skipper Scherff standing against the wall, and continued. "I'll get to that in a minute. We know the kid's lying because he says they arrived on the scene after Clifford shot himself. Looks doubtful. First, the kid's fingerprints are all over the car, inside and out. On the dash, on the door, on the whiskey bottle, on the gun, everywhere. We lifted a print from him about two hours ago, and we've had our people all over the car. They'll finish up tomorrow, but it's obvious the kid was inside. Doing what, well, we're not yet certain. We've also found prints all around the rear taillights just above the exhaust pipe. And there were also three fresh cigarette butts under a tree near the car. Virginia Slims, the same brand used by Dianne Sway. We figure the kids were being kids, took the cigarettes from their mother, and went for a smoke. They were minding their own business when Clifford appears from nowhere. They hide and watch him-it's a dense area and hiding is no problem. Maybe they sneak around and pull out the hose, •we're not sure and the kids aren't telling. The little boy can't talk right now, and Mark evidently is lying. Anyway, it's obvious the hose didn't work. We're trying to match prints on it, but it's tedious work. May be impossible. I'll have photos in the morning to show the location of the hose when the Memphis PD arrived."

  McThune lifted a yellow notepad from the wreckage on his desk. He spoke to it, not to Foltrigg. "Clifford fired at least one shot from inside the car. The bullet exited through the center, almost exactly, of the front passenger window, which cracked but did not shatter. No idea why he did this, and no idea when it was done. The autopsy was finished an hour ago, and Clifford was full of Dalmane, codeine, and Percodan.

  Plus his blood alcohol content was point two-two, so he was drunk as a skunk, as these people say down here. My point being, not only was he off his rocker enough to kill himself, but he was also drunk and stoned, so there's no way to figure out a lot of this. We're not tracking a rational mind."

  "I understand that." Roy nodded impatiendy. Wally Boxx hovered behind him like a well-trained terrier.

  McThune ignored him. "The gun's a cheap .38 he purchased illegally at a pawnshop here in Memphis. We've questioned the owner, but he won't talk without his lawyer present, so we'll do that in'the morning, or this morning I should say. A Texaco receipt shows a purchase of gasoline in Vaiden, Mississippi, about an hour and a half from here. The clerk is a kid who says she thinks he stopped around i P.M. No other evidence of any stops. His secretary says he left the office around 9 A.M., said he had an errand to run and she didn't hear a word until we called. Frankly, she was not very upset at the news. It looks as though he left New Orleans shortly after nine, drove to Memphis in five or six hours, stopped once for gas^ stopped to buy the gun, and drove off and shot himself. Maybe he stopped for lunch, maybe to buy whiskey, maybe a lot of things. We're digging."

  "Why Memphis?" Wally Boxx asked. Foltrigg nodded, obviously approving the question.

  "Because he was born here," McThune said solemnly while staring at Foltrigg, as if everyone prefers to die in the place of their birth. It was a humorous response delivered by a serious face, and Foltrigg missed it all. McThune had heard he was not too bright.

  "Evidently, the family moved away when he was a

  child," he explained after a pause. "He went to college at Rice and law school at Tulane."

  "We were in law school together," Fink said proudly.

  "That's great. The note was handwritten and dated today, or yesterday I should say. Handwritten with a black felt tip pen of some sort-the pen wasn't found on him or in the car." McThune picked up a sheet of paper and leaned across the desk. "Here. This is the original. Be careful with it."

  Wally Boxx leaped at it and handed it to Foltrigg, who studied it. McThune rubbed his eyes and continued. "Just funeral arrangements and directions to his secretary. Look at the bottom. It looks as though he tried to add something with a blue ballpoint pen, but the pen was out of ink."

  Foltrigg's nose got closer to the note. "It says 'Mark, Mark where are,' and I can't make out the rest of it."

  "Right. The handwriting is awful and the pen ran out of ink, but our expert says the same thing. 'Mark, Mark where are.' He also thinks that Clifford was drunk or stoned or something when he tried to write this. We found the pen in the car. Cheap Bic. No doubt it's the pen. He has no children, nephews, brothers, uncles, or cousins by the name of Mark. We're checking his close friends-his secretary said he had none-but as of now we haven't found a Mark."

  "So what does it mean?"

  "There's one other thing. A few hours ago, Mark Sway rode to the hospital with a Memphis cop by the name of Hardy. Along the way, he let it slip that Ro-mey said or did something. Romey. Short for Jerome, according to Mr. Clifford's secretary. In fact, she said more people called him Romey than Jerome. How would the kid know the nickname unless Mr. Clifford himself told him?"

  Foltrigg listened with his mouth open. "What do you think?" he asked.

  "Well, my theory is that the kid was in the,car before Clifford shot himself, and that he was there for some time because of all the prints, and that he and Clifford talked about something. Then, at some point, the kid leaves the car, Clifford tries to add something to his note, and shoots himselfTThe kid is scared. His little brother goes into shock, and here we are."

  "Why would the kid lie?"

  "One, he's scared. Two, he's a kid. Three, maybe Clifford told him something he doesn't need to know."

  McThune's delivery was perfect, and the dramatic punch line left a heavy silence in the room. Foltrigg was frozen. Boxx and Fink stared blankly at the desk with open mouths.

  Because his boss was temporarily at a loss, Wally Boxx moved in defensively and asked a stupid question. "Why do you think this?"

  McThune's patience with U.S. attorneys and their little flunkies had been exhausted about twenty years earlier. He'd seen them come and go. He'd learned to play their games and manipulate their egos. He knew the best way to handle their banalities was simply to respond. "Because of the note, the prints, and the lies. The poor kid doesn't know what to do."

  Foltrigg placed the note on the desk, and cleared his throat. "Have you talked to the kid?"

  "No. I went to the hospital two hours ago, but did not see him. Sergeant Hardy of the Memphis PD talked to him."

  "Do you plan to?"

  "Yes, in a few hours. Trumann and I will go to the hospital around nine or so and talk to the kid and maybe his mother. I'd also like to talk to the little brother, but it'll depend on his doctor."

  "I'd like to be there," Foltrigg said. Everyone knew it was coming.

  McThune shook his head. "Not a good idea. We'll handle it." He was abrupt and left no doubt that he was in charge. This was Memphis, not New Orleans.

  "What about the kid's doctor? Have you talked to him?"

  "No, not yet. We'll try this morning. I doubt if he'll say much."

  "Do you think these kids would tell the doctor?" Fink asked innocently.

  McThune rolled his eyes at Trumann as if to say "What kind of dumbasses have you brought me?" "I can't answer that, sir. I don't know what the kids know. I don't know the doctor's name. I don't know if he's talked to the kids. I don't know if the kids will tell him anything."

  Foltrigg frowned at Fink, who shrank with embarrassment. McThune glanced at his watch and stood. "Gendemen, it's late. Our people will finish with the car by noon, and I suggest we meet then."

  "We must know everything Mark Sway knows," Roy said without moving. "He was in that car, and Clifford talked to him."

  "I know that."

  "Yes, Mr. McThune, but there are some things you don't know. Clifford knew the location of the body, and he was talking about it."

  "There are a lot of things I don't know, Mr. Foltrigg, because th
is is a New Orleans case, and I work Memphis, you understand. I don't want to know any more about poor Mr. Boyette and poor Mr. Clifford. I'm up to my ass in dead bodies here. It's almost i A.M., and I'm sitting here in my office working on a case that's not mine, talking to you fellas and answering your questions. And I'll work on the case until noon tomorrow, then my pal Larry Trumann here can have it. I'll be finished."

  "Unless, of course, you get a call from Washington."

  "Yes, unless, of course, I get a call from Washington, then I'll do whatever Mr. Voyles tells me."

  "I talk to Mr. Voyles every week."

  '' Congratulations.''

  "The Boyette case is the FBI's top priority at this moment, according to him."

  "So I've heard."

  "And I'm sure Mr. Voyles will appreciate your efforts."

  "I doubt it."

  Roy stood slowly and stared at McThune. "It is imperative that we know everything Mark Sway knows. Do you understand?"

  McThune returned the stare and said nothing.

  8

  Karen checked on Mark throughout the night, and brought him orange juice around eight. He was alone in the small waiting room. She woke him gently.

  In spite of his many problems at the moment, he was falling hopelessly in love with this beautiful nurse. He sipped the juice and looked into her sparkling brown eyes. She patted the blanket covering his legs.

  "How old are you?" he asked.

  She smiled even wider.

  "Twenty-four. Thirteen years older than you. Why do you ask?"

  "Just a habit. Are you married?"

  "No." She gently removed the blanket and began folding it. "How was the sofa?"

  Mark stood, stretched, and watched her. "Better than that bed Morn had to sleep on. Did you work all night?"

  "From eight to eight. We're doing twelve-hour shifts, four days a week. Come with me. Dr. Greenway is in the room and wants to see you." She took his hand, which helped immensely, and they walked to Ricky's room. Karen left and closed the door behind her.

  Dianne looked tired. She stood at the foot of Ricky's bed with an unlit cigarette in her trembling hand. Mark stood next to her, and she put her arm on his shoulder. They watched as Greenway rubbed Ricky's forehead and spoke to him. His eyes were closed and he was not responding.

  "He doesn't hear you, Doctor," Dianne said finally. It was difficult to listen to Greenway chat away in baby talk. He ignored her. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Mark smelled fresh soap and noticed her hair was wet.- She "had changed clothes. But there was no makeup and her face was different.

  Greenway stood straight. "A most severe case," he said almost to himself while staring at the closed eyes.

  "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 u remove trie iv, so ne can waiK around tne 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 Llitiora, and the smoller 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.

  "Ihey asked it they could see you at nine, and l 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 iromuic fore 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.