Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  An hour after they started, she took a break and read the newspaper story twice. Then again. It seemed to fit. He knew too many details to be lying. This was not a story a hyperactive mind could fabricate. And the poor kid was scared to death.

  Clint interrupted again at eleven-thirty to inform Reggie her next appointment had been waiting for an hour. "Cancel it," Reggie said without looking from her notes, and Clint was gone. Mark walked around her office as she read. He stood in her window and watched the traffic on Third Street below. Then he returned to his seat and waited.

  His lawyer was deeply troubled, and he almost felt sorry for her. All those names and faces in the Yellow Pages, and he had to drop this bomb on Reggie Love.

  "What are you afraid of, Mark?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  "Lots of things. I've lied to the police about this, and I think they know I'm lying. And that scares me. My little brother's in a coma because of me. It's all my fault. I lied to his doctor. And all that scares me. I don't know what to do, and I guess that's why I'm here. What should I do?"

  "Have you told me everything?"

  "No, but almost."

  "Have you lied to me?"

  "No."

  "Do you know where the body is buried?"

  "I think so. I know what Jerome Clifford told me."

  For a split second, Reggie was terrified he would blurt it out. But he didn't, and they stared at each other for a long rime.

  "Do you want to tell me where it is?" she finally asked.

  "Do you want me to?"

  "I'm not sure. What keeps you from telling me?"

  "I'm scared, I don't want anybody to know that I know, because Romey told me his client had killed many people and was planning on killing Romey too. If he's killed lots of people, and if he thinks I know this secret, he'll come after me. And if I tell this stuff to the cops then he'll come after me for sure. He's in the Mafia, and that really scares me. Wouldn^t it scare you?"

  "I think so."

  "And the cops have threatened me u i aon i ten the truth, and they think I'm lying anyway, and I just don't know what to do. Do you think I should tell the police and the FBI?"

  Reggie stood and walked slowly to the window. She had no wonderful advice at this point. If she suggested that her newest client spill his guts to the FBI, and he followed her advice, his life could indeed be in danger. There was no law requiring him to tell. Obstruction of justice, maybe, but he was just a kid. They didn't know for certain what he knew, and if they couldn't prove it, he was safe.

  "Let's do this, Mark. Don't tell me where the body is, okay? For now anyway. Maybe later, but not now. And let's meet with the FBI and listen to them. You won't have to say a word. I'll do the talking, and we'll both do the listening. And when it's over, you and I will decide what to do next."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Does your mother know you're here?"

  "No. I need to call her."

  Reggie found the number in the phone book and dialed the hospital. Mark explained to Dianne that he had gone for a walk and would be there in a minute. He was a smooth liar, Reggie noticed. He listened for a while and looked disturbed. "How is he?" he asked. "I'll be there in a minute."

  He hung up and looked at Reggie. "Mom's upset. Ricky's coming out of the coma and she can't find Dr. Greenway."

  "I'll walk with you to the hospital."

  "That would be nice."

  "Where does the FBI want to meet?"

  "I think at the hospital."

  She checked her watch and threw two fresh legal pads into her briefcase. She was suddenly nervous. Mark waited by the door.

  9

  The second lawyer hired by Barry the Blade Muldanno to defend him on these obnoxious murder charges was another angry hatchet man by the name of Willis Upchurch, a rising star among the gang of boisterous mouthpieces trotting across the country performing for crooks and cameras. Upchurch had offices in Chicago and Washington, and any other city where he could hook a famous case and rent space. As soon as he talked with Muldanno after breakfast, he was on a plane to New Orleans to, first, organize a press conference, and, second, meet with his famous new client and plot a noisy defense. He had become somewhat rich and noted in Chicago for his passionate defense of mob assassins and drug traffickers, and in the past decade or so had been called in by mob brass around the country for all sorts of representation. His record was average, but it was not his won/lost ratio that attracted clients. It was his angry face and bushy hair and thunderous voice. Upchurch was a lawyer who wanted to be seen and heard in magazine articles, news stories, advice columns, quickie books, and gossip shows. He had opinions. He was unafraid of predictions. He was radical and would say anything, and this made him a favorite of the loony daytime TV talk shows.

  He took only sensational cases with lots of headlines and cameras. Nothing was too repulsive for him. He preferred rich clients who could pay, but if a serial killer needed help, Upchurch would be there with a contract giving himself exclusive book and movie rights.

  Though he enjoyed his notoriety immensely, and received some praise from the far left for his vigorous defense of indigent murderers, Upchurch was little more than a Mafia lawyer. He was owned by the mob, yanked around by their strings, and paid whenever they decided. He was allowed to roam a bit and spout at the mouth, but if they called, he came running.

  And when Johnny Sulari, Barry's uncle, called at four in the morning, Willis Upchurch came running. The uncle explained the scarce facts about the untimely death of Jerome Clifford. Upchurch drooled into the receiver as Sulari asked him to fly immediately to New Orleans. He skipped to the bathroom at the thought of defending Barry the Blade Muldanno in front of all those cameras. He whistled in the shower when he thought of all the ink the case had already generated, and how he would now be the star. He grinned at himself in the mirror as he tied his ninety-dollar tie and thought of spending the next six months in New Orleans with the press at his beck and call.

  This was why he went to Law School!

  The scene was frightening at first. They had been removed because Dianne was in the bed clutching Ricky. He was moaning and grunting, twisting and jerking. His eyes were open, then shut. Dianne pressed her head to his and spoke softly through her tears. "It's okay, baby. It's okay. Mommy's here. Mommy's here."

  Greenway stood close by, arms folded, rubbing his beard. He appeared puzzled, as if he hadn't seen this before. A nurse held the other side of the bed.

  Mark entered the room slowly and no one noticed. Reggie had stopped at the nurses' station. It was almost noon, time for the FBI and all, but Mark knew immediately that no one in the room was remotely concerned with the cops and their questions.

  "It's okay, baby. It's okay. Mommy's here."

  Mark inched to the foot of the bed for a closer look. Dianne managed a quick, uncomfortable smile, then closed her eyes and kept whispering to Ricky.

  After a few minutes of this, Ricky opened his eyes, seemed to notice and recognize his mother, and grew still. She kissed him a dozen times on the forehead. The nurse smiled and patted his shoulder and cooed something at him.

  Greenway looked at Mark and nodded at the door. Mark followed him outside, into the quiet hallway. They walked slowly toward the end of it, away from the nurses' station.

  "He woke up about two hours ago," the doctor explained. "It looks like he's coming out of it slowly."

  "Has he said anything yet?"

  "Like what?"

  "Well, you know, like about what happened yesterday."

  "No. .He's mumbled a lot, which is a good sign, but he hasn't made any words yet."

  This was comforting, in a sense. Mark would have to stick close to the room just in case. "So he's gonna be okay?"

  "I didn't say that." The lunch cart stopped in the middle of the hall and they walked around it. "I think he'll be okay, but it could take time." There was a long pause in which Mark worried if Greenway expected him to say something.

&nb
sp; "How strong is your mother?"

  "Pretty strong, I guess. We've been through a lot."

  "Where's the family? She'll need plenty of help."

  "There's no family. She has a sister in Texas, but they don't get along. And her sister has problems too."

  "Your grandparents?"

  "No. My ex-father was an orphan. I figure his parents probably dumped him somewhere when they got to know him. My mother's father is dead, and her mother lives in Texas too. She's sick all the time."

  "I'm sorry."

  They stopped at the end of the hall and looked through a dirty window at downtown Memphis. The Sterick Building stood tall.

  "The FBI is bugging me," Greenway said.

  Join the club, Mark thought. "Where are they?"

  "Room 28 It's a small conference room on the second floor that's seldom used. They said they'd be expecting me, you, and your mother at exactly noon, and they sounded very serious." Greenway glanced at his watch and started to walk back to the room. "They are quite anxious."

  "I'm ready for them," Mark said in a weak effort at boldness.

  Greenway frowned at him. "How's that?" "I've hired us a lawyer," he said proudly. "When?"

  "This morning. She's here now, down the hall." Greenway looked ahead but the nurses' station was around a bend in the corridor. "The lawyer's here?" he asked in disbelief. "Yep."

  "How'd you find a lawyer?" "It's a long story. But I paid her myself." Greenway pondered this as he shuffled along. "Well, your mother cannot leave Ricky right now, under any circumstances. And I certainly need to stay close."

  "No problem. Me and the lawyer will handle it." They stopped at Ricky's door, and Greenway hesitated before pushing it open. "I can put them off until tomorrow. In fact, I can order them out of the hospital." He was attempting to sound tough, but Mark knew better.

  "No, thanks. They won't go away. You take care of Ricky and Mom, and me and the lawyer'll take care of the FBI."

  Reggie had found an empty room on the eighth floor, and they hurried down the stairs to use it. They were ten minutes late. She closed the door quickly, and said, "Pull up your shirt."

  He froze, and stared at her.

  "Pull up your shirt!" she insisted, and he began pulling at his bulky Memphis State Tigers sweatshirt. She opened her briefcase and removed a small black recorder and a strip of plastic and Velcro. She checked the micro-cassette tape, then punched the buttons. Mark watched every move. She'd .used this device many times before, he could tell. She pressed it to his stomach, and said, "Hold it right here." Then she threaded the plastic strap through a clip on the recorder, wrapped it around his midsection and back, and fastened it snugly with the Velcro ends. "Breathe deeply," she said, and he did.

  He tucked the sweatshirt into his jeans. Reggie took a step back and stared at his stomach. "Perfect," she said.

  "What if they frisk me?"

  "They won't. Let's go."

  She grabbed her briefcase, and they were out the door.

  "How do you know they -won't frisk me?" he asked again, very anxious. He walked fast to keep up with her. A nurse looked at them suspiciously.

  "Because they're here to talk, not to arrest. Just trust me."

  "I trust you, but I'm really scared."

  "You'll do fine, Mark. Just remember what I told you."

  "Are you sure they can't see this thing?"

  "I'm positive." She pushed hard through a door and they were back in the stairwell, descending quickly on green concrete steps. Mark was one step behind. "What if the beeper goes off or something and they freak out and pull guns? What then?"

  "No beeper." She took his hand, squeezed it hard, and zigzagged downward to the second floor. "And they don't shoot kids."

  "They did in a movie once."

  The second floor of st. peter's had been built many years before the ninth. It was gray and dirty, and the narrow corridors were swarming with the usual anxious traffic of nurses, doctors, technicians, and orderlies pushing stretchers, and patients rolling along in wheel-chairs, and dazed families walking to nowhere in particular and trying to stay awake. Corridors met from all directions in chaotic little junctions, then branched out again in a hopeless labyrinth. Reggie asked three nur'ses about the location of Room 28, and the third pointed and talked but never stopped walking. They found a neglected hallway with ancient carpet and bad lighting, and six doors down to the right was their room. The door was cheap wood with no window.

  "I'm scared, Reggie," Mark said, staring at the door.

  She held his hand firmly. If she was nervous, it was not apparent. Her face was calm. Her voice was warm and reassuring. "Just do as I told you, Mark. I know what I'm doing."

  They retreated a step or two, and Reggie opened an identical door to Room 24 It was an abandoned coffee room now used for haphazard storage. "I'll wait in here. Now, go knock on the door."

  "I'm scared, Reggie."

  She carefully felt the recorder, and worked her fingers around it until she pushed the button. "Now go," she instructed, and pointed down the hall.

  Mark took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He could hear chairs move inside. "Come in," someone said, and the voice was not friendly. He opened the door slowly, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. The room was narrow and long, just like the table in the center of it. No windows. No smiles from the two men who stood on each side of the table near the end. They could pass for twins-white button-down shirts, red-and-blue ties, dark pants, short hair.

  "You must be Mark," one said as the other stared at the door.

  Mark nodded, but could not speak.

  "Where's your mother?"

  "Uh, who are you?" Mark managed to get it out.

  The one on the right said, "I'm Jason McThune, FBI, Memphis." He stuck out his hand and Mark shook it limply. "Nice to meet you, Mark."

  "Yeah, my pleasure."

  "And I'm Larry Trumann," said the other. "FBI, New Orleans." Mark allowed Trumann the same feeble handshake. The agents exchanged nervous looks, and for an awkward second neither knew what to say.

  Trumann finally pointed to the chair at the end of the table. "Have a seat, Mark." McThune nodded his agreement and almost smiled. Mark carefully sat down, terrified the Velcro would break away and the damned thing would somehow fall off. They'd handcuff his little butt so fast and throw him in the car and he'd never see his mother again. What would Reggie do then? They moved toward him in their rolling chairs. They slid their notepads on the table to within inches of him.

  They were breathing on him, and Mark figured it was part of the game. Then he almost smiled. If they wanted to sit this close, fine. But the black recorder would get it all. No fading voices.

  "We, uh, we really expected your mother and Dr.Greenway to be here," Trumann said, glancing at McThune.

  "They're with my brother."

  "How is he?" McThune asked gravely.

  "Not too good. Mom can't leave his room right now."

  "We thought she'd be here," Trumann said again, and looked at McThune as if uncertain how to proceed.

  "Well, we' can wait a day or two until she's available," Mark offered.

  "No, Mark, we really need to talk now."

  "Maybe I can go get her."

  Trumann took his pen from his shirt pocket and smiled at Mark. "No, let's talk a few minutes, Mark. Just the three of us. Are you nervous?"

  "A little. What do you want?" He was still stiff with fear but breathing better. The recorder hadn't beeped or shocked him.

  "Well, we want to ask you some questions about yesterday."

  "Do I need a lawyer?"

  They looked at each other with perfectly symmetrical open mouths, and at least five seconds passed before McThune cocked his head at Mark and said, "Of course not."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, we just, you know, want to ask you a few questions. That's all. If you decide you want your mother, then we'll go get her. Or something. But you don't need a lawyer. Just a few questi
ons, that's all."

  "I've already talked to the cops once. In fact, I talked to the cops for a long time last night."

  "We're not cops. We're FBI agents."

  "That's what scares me. I think maybe I need a lawyer to, you know, protect my rights and all."

  "You've been watching too much TV, kid."

  "The name's Mark, okay? Can you at least call me Mark?"

  "Sure. Sorry. But you don't need a lawyer."

  "Yeah," Trumann chimed in. "Lawyers just get in the way. You have to pay them money, and they object to everything."

  "Don't you think we should wait until my mother can be here?"

  They exchanged matching little smiles, and McThune said, "Not really, Mark. I mean, we can wait if you want to, but you're a smart kid and we're really in a hurry here, and we just have a few quick questions for you."

  "Okay. I guess. If I have to."

  Trumann looked at his notepad, and went first. "Good. You told the Memphis Police that Jerome Clifford was already dead when you and Ricky found the car yesterday. Now, Mark, is this really the truth?" He sort of sneered toward the end of the question as if he knew damned well it wasn't the truth.

  Mark fidgeted and looked straight ahead. "Do I have to answer the question?"

  "Sure you do."

  "Why?"

  "Because we need to know the truth, Mark. We're the FBI, and we're investigating this thing, and we must know the truth."

  "What happens if I don't answer?"

  "Oh, lots of things. We might be forced to take you down to our office, in the backseat of the car of course, no handcuffs, and ask some really tough questions. May have to bring along your mother too."

  "What will happen to my mother? Can she get in trouble?"

  "Maybe."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  They paused for a second and exchanged nervous looks. They had started on shaky ground, and things were getting shakier by the minute. Children are not to be interviewed without first talking to the parents.

  But what the hell. His mother didn't show. He had no father. He was a poor kid, and here he was all alone. It was perfect, really. They couldn't ask for a better situation. Just a couple of quick questions.