McThune cleared his throat and went into a deep frown. "Mark, have you ever heard of obstruction of justice?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, it's a crime, okay. A federal offense. A person who knows something about a crime, and withholds this information from the FBI or the police, might be found guilty of obstruction of justice."
"What happens then?"
"Well, if found guilty, such a person might be punished. You know, sent to jail or something like that."
"So, if I don't answer your questions, me and Mom might go to jail?"
McThune retreated a bit and looked at Trumann. The ice was getting thinner. "Why don't you want to answer the question, Mark?" Trumann asked. "Are you hiding something?"
"I'm just scared. And it doesn't seem fair since I'm just eleven years old and you're the FBI, and my mom's not here. I don't know what to do, really."
"Can't you just answer the questions, Mark, without your mother? You saw something yesterday, and your mother was not around. She can't help you answer the questions. We just want to know what you saw."
"If you were in my place, would you want a lawyer?"
"Hell no," McThune said. "I would never want a lawyer. Pardon my language, son, but they're just a pain in the ass. A real pain. If you have nothing to hide, you don't need a lawyer. Just answer our questions truthfully, and everything will be fine." He was becoming angry, and this did not surprise Mark. One of them had to be angry. It was the good guy-bad guy routine Mark had seen a thousand times on television. McThune would get ugly, and Trumann would smile a lot and sometimes even frown at his partner for Mark's benefit, and this would somehow endear Trumann to Mark. McThune would then get disgusted and leave the room, and Mark would then be expected to spill his guts all over the table.
Trumann leaned to him with a drippy smile. "Mark, was Jerome Clifford already dead when you and Ricky found him?"
"I take the Fifth Amendment."
The drippy smile vanished. McThune's face reddened, and he shook his head in absolute frustration. There was a long pause as the agents stared at each other. Mark watched an ant crawl across the table and disappear under a notepad.
Trumann, the good guy, finally spoke. "Mark, I'm afraid you've been watching too much television."
"You mean I can't take the Fifth Amendment?"
"Lemme guess," McThune snarled. "You watch 'L.A. Law,' right?"
"Every week."
"Figures. Are you gonna answer any questions, Mark? Because if you're not, then we have to do other things."
"Like what?"
"Go to court. Talk to the judge. Convince him to require you to talk to us. It's pretty nasty, really."
"I need to go to the rest room," Mark said as he slid his chair away from the table and stood.
"Uh, sure, Mark," Trumann said, suddenly afraid they'd made him sick. "I think it's just down the hall." Mark was at the door.
"Take five minutes, Mark, we'll wait. No hurry."
He left the room and closed the door behind him.
For seventeen minutes, the agents made small talk and played with their pens. They weren't worried. They were experienced agents with many tricks. They'd been here before. He would talk.
A knock, and McThune said, "Come in." The door opened, and an attractive lady of fifty or so walked in and closed the door as if this were her office. They scrambled to their feet just as she said, "Keep your seats."
"We're in a meeting," Trumann said officially.
"You're in the wrong room," McThune said rudely.
She placed her briefcase on the table and handed each agent a white card. "I don't think so," she said. "My name is Reggie Love. I'm an attorney, and I represent Mark Sway."
They took it well. McThune inspected the card while Trumann just stood there, arms dangling by his legs, trying to say something.
"When did he hire you?" McThune said, looking wildly at Trumann.
"That's really none of your business, is it now? I'm not hired. I'm retained. Sit down."
She eased gracefully into her seat and rolled it to the table. They backed awkwardly into theirs, and kept their distance.
"Where's, uh, where's Mark?" Trumann asked.
"He's off somewhere taking the Fifth. Can I see your ID, please?"
They instantly reached for their jackets, fished around desperately, and simultaneously produced their badges. She held both, studied them carefully, then wrote something on a legal pad.
When she finished, she slid them across the table and asked, "Did you in fact attempt to interrogate this child outside the presence of his mother?"
"No," said Trumann.
"Of course not," said McThune, shocked at this suggestion.
"He tells me you did."
"He's confused," said McThune. "We initially approached Dr. Greenway, and he agreed to this meeting, which was supposed to include Mark, Dianne Sway, and the doctor."
"But the kid showed up alone," Trumann added quickly, very eager to explain things. "And we asked •where his mother was, and he said she couldn't make it right now, and we sort of thought she was on her way or something, so we were just chitchatting with the kid."
"Yeah, while we waited for Ms. Sway and the doctor," McThune chimed in helpfully. "Where were you during this?"
"Don't ask questions that are irrelevant. Did you advise Mark to talk to a lawyer?"
The agents locked eyes and searched each other for help. "It wasn't mentioned," Trumann said, shrugging innocently.
It was easier to lie because the kid wasn't there. And he was just a scared little kid who'd gotten things confused, and they were, after all, FBI agents, so she'd eventually believe them.
McThune cleared his throat and said, "Uh, yeah, once, Larry, remember Mark said something, or maybe I said something about 'L.A. Law,' and then Mark said he might need a lawyer, but he was sort of kidding and we, or at least I, took it as a joke. Remember, Larry?"
Larry now remembered. "Oh, sure, yeah, something about 'L.A. Law.' Just a joke though."
"Are you sure?" Reggie asked.
"Of course I'm sure," Trumann protested. McThune frowned and nodded along with his partner.
"He didn't ask you guys if he needed a lawyer?"
They shook their heads and tried hopelessly to remember. "I don't remember it that way. He's just a kid, and very scared, and I think he's confused," McThune said.
"Did you advise him of his Miranda rights?"
Trumann smiled at this and was suddenly more confident. "Of course not. He's not a suspect. He's just a kid. We need to ask him a few questions."
"And you did not attempt to interrogate him without his mother's presence or consent?"
"No."
"Of course not."
"And you did not tell him to avoid lawyers after he asked your advice?"
"No ma'am,"
"No way. The kid's lying if he told you otherwise."
Reggie slowly opened her briefcase and lifted out the black recorder and the micro-cassette tape. She sat them in front of her and placed the briefcase on the floor. Special Agents McThune and Trumann stared at the devices and seemed to shrink a bit in their seats.
Reggie rewarded each with a bitchy smile, and said, "I think we know who's lying."
McThune slid two fingers down the bridge of his nose. Trumann rubbed his eyes. She let them suffer for a moment. The room was silent.
"It's all right here on tape, fellas. You boys attempted to interrogate a child outside the presence of his mother and without her consent. He specifically asked you if you shouldn't wait until she was available and you said no. You attempted to coerce the child with the threat of criminal prosecution not only for the child but also for his mother. He told you he was scared, and twice he specifically asked you if he needed a lawyer. You advised him not to get a lawyer, giving as one of your reasons the opinion that lawyers are a pain in the ass. Gentlemen, the pain is here."
They sunk lower. McThune pressed four fingers ag
ainst his forehead and gently rubbed. Trumann stared in disbelief at the tape, but was careful not to look at the woman. He thought of grabbing it, and ripping it to shreds, and stomping on it because it could be his career, but for some reason he believed with all his troubled heart that this woman had made a copy of it.
Getting slapped with a lie was bad enough, but their problems ran much deeper. There could be serious disciplinary proceedings. Reprimands. Transfers. Crap in the record. And at this moment, Trumann also believed that this woman knew all there was to know about the disciplining of wayward FBI agents.
"You wired the kid," Trumann said meekly to no one in particular.
"Why not? No crime. You're the FBI, remember. You boys run more wire than AT&T."
What a smartass! But then, she was a lawyer, wasn't she? McThune leaned forward, cracked his knuckles, and decided to offer some resistance. "Look, Ms. Love, we-"
"It's Reggie."
"Okay, okay. Reggie, uh, look, we're sorry. We, uh, got a little carried away, and, well, we apologize."
"A little carried away? I could have your jobs for this."
They were not about to argue with her. She was probably right, and even if there was room for debate, they simply -were not up to it.
"Are you taping this?" Trumann asked.
"No."
"Okay, we were out of line. We're sorry." He could not look at her.
Reggie slowly placed the tape in her coat pocket. "Look at me, fellas." They slowly lifted their eyes to hers, but it was painful. "You've already proven to me that you'll lie, and that you'll lie quickly. Why should I trust you?"
Trumann suddenly slapped the table, hissed, and made a noisy show of standing and pacing to the end of the table. He threw up his hands. "This is incredible.
We came here with just a few questions for the kid, just doing our jobs, and now we're fighting with you. The kid didn't tell us he had a lawyer. If he'd told us, then we would have backed off. Why'd you do this? Why'd you deliberately pick this fight? It's senseless."
"What do you want from the kid?"
"The truth. He's lying about what he saw yesterday. We know he's lying. We know he talked to Jerome Clifford before Clifford killed himself. We know the kid was in the car. Maybe I don't blame him for lying. He's just a kid. He's scared. But dammit, we need to know what he saw and heard."
"What do you suspect he saw and heard?"
The nightmare of explaining this to Foltrigg suddenly hit Trumann, and he leaned against the wall. This is exactly why he hated lawyers-Foltrigg, Reggie, the next one he met. They made life so complicated.
"Has he told you everything?" McThune asked.
"Our conversations are extremely private."
"I know that. But do you realize who Clifford was, and Muldanno and Boyd Boyette? Do you know the story?"
"I read the paper this morning. I've kept up with the case in New Orleans. You boys need the body, don't you?"
"You could say that," Trumann said from the end of the table. "But at this moment we really need to talk to your client."
"I'll think about it."
"When might you reach a decision?"
"I don't know. Are you boys busy this afternoon?"
"Why?"
"I need to talk to my client some more. Let's say
we'll meet in my office at 3 P.M." She took her briefcase and placed the recorder in it. It was obvious this meeting was over. "I'll keep the tape to myself. It'll just be our little secret, okay?"
McThune nodded his agreement, but knew there was more.
"If I need something from you boys, like the truth or a straight answer, I expect to get it. If I catch you lying again, I'll use the tape."
"That's blackmail," said Trumann.
"That's exactly what it is. Indict me." She stood and grabbed the doorknob. "See you boys at three."
McThune followed her. "Uh, listen, Reggie, there's this guy who'll probably want to be at the meeting. His name is Roy Foltrigg, and he's-"
"Mr. Foltrigg is in town?"
"Yes. He arrived last night, and he'll insist on attending this meeting at your office."
"Well, well. I'm honored. Please invite him."
10
The front-page story in the Memphis Press about Clifford's death was written top to bottom by Slick Moeller, a veteran police reporter who had been covering crime and cops in Memphis for thirty years. His real name was Alfred, but no one knew it. His mother called him Slick, but not even she could remember the nickname's origins. Three •wives and a hundred girlfriends had called him Slick. He did not dress exceptionally well, did not finish high school, did not have money, was blessed with average looks and build, drove a Mustang, could not keep a woman, and so no one knew why he was called Slick.
Crime was his life. He knew the drug dealers and pimps. He drank beer at the topless bars and gossiped with the bouncers. He kept charts on the who's who of motorcycle gangs that supplied the city with drugs and strippers. He could move deftly through the toughest projects of Memphis without a scratch. He knew the rank and file of the street gangs. He had busted no less than a dozen stolen car rings by tipping the police. He knew the ex-cons, especially the ones who returned to crime. He could spot a fencing operation simply by watching the pawnshops. His cluttered downtown apartment was most unremarkable except for an entire wall of emergency scanners and police radios. His Mustang had more junk than a police cruiser, except for a radar gun, and he didn't want one.
Slick Moeller lived and moved in the dark shadows of Memphis. He was often on the crime scene before the cops. He moved freely about the morgues and hospitals and black funeral parlors. He had nurtured thousands of contacts and sources, and they talked to Slick because he could be trusted. If it was off the record, then it was off the record. Background was background. An informant would never be compromised. Tips were guarded zealously. Slick was a man of his word, and even the street gang leaders knew it.
He was also on a first-name basis with virtually every cop in the city, many of whom referred to him with great admiration as the Mole. Mole Moeller did this. Mole Moeller said that. Since Slick had become his real name, the added nickname did not bother him. Nothing bothered Slick much. He drank coffee with cops in a hundred all-night diners around town. He watched them play softball, knew when their wives filed for divorce, knew when they got themselves reprimanded. He was at Central Headquarters at least twenty hours a day, it seemed, and it was not uncommon for cops to stop him and ask what was going on. Who got shot? Where was the holdup? Was the driver drunk? How many were killed? Slick told them as much as he could. He helped them whenever possible. His name was often mentioned in classes at the Memphis Police Academy.
And so it was no surprise to anyone that Slick spent the entire morning fishing around Central. He'd made his calls to New Orleans and knew the basics. He knew Roy Foltrigg and the New Orleans FBI were in town, and that everything had been turned over to them. This intrigued him. It was not just a simple suicide; there were too many blank faces and "no comments." There was a note of some sort, and all questions about it were met with sudden denials. He could read the faces of some of these cops, been doing it for years. He knew about the boys and that the younger one was in bad shape. There were some fingerprints, some cigarette butts.
He left the elevator on the ninth floor and walked away from the nurses' station. He knew the number of Ricky's room, but this was the psychiatric ward and he was not about to go barging in with his questions. He didn't want to scare anyone, especially an eight-year-old kid who was in shock. He stuck two quarters in the soft drink machine and sipped on a diet Coke as if he'd been there all night walking the floors. An orderly in a light blue jacket pushed a cart of cleaning supplies to the elevator. He was a male, about twenty-five, long hair, and certainly bored with his menial job.
Slick stepped to the elevators, and when the door opened he followed the orderly onto it. The name Fred was sewn into the jacket above the pocket. They were alon
e.
"You work the ninth floor?" Slick asked, bored but with a smile.
"Yeah." Fred did not look at him,
"I'm Slick Moeller with the Memphis Press, working on a story about Ricky Sway in Room 943 You know, the shooting and all." He'd learned early in his career that it was best to tell them up front who and what.
Fred was suddenly interested. He stood erect and looked at Slick as if to say "Yeah, I know plenty, but you're not getting it from me." The cart between them was filled with Ajax, Comet, and twenty bottles of generic hospital supplies. A bucket of dirty rags and sponges covered the bottom tray. Fred was a toilet scrubber, but in a flash, he became a man with the inside scoop. "Yeah," he said calmly.
"Have you seen the kid?" Slick asked nonchalantly while watching the numbers light up above the door.
"Yeah, just left there."
"I hear it's severe traumatic shock."
"Don't know," Fred said smugly as if his secrets were crucial. But he wanted to talk, and this never ceased to amaze Slick. Take an average person, tell him you're a reporter, and nine times out of ten he'll feel obligated to talk. Hell, he'll want to talk. He'll tell you his deepest secrets.
"Poor kid," Slick mumbled to the floor as if Ricky were terminal. He said nothing else for a few seconds, and this was too much for Fred. What kind of a reporter was he? Where were the questions? He, Fred, knew the kid, had just left his room, had talked to his mother. He, Fred, was a player in this game.
"Yeah, he's in bad shape," Fred said, also to the floor.
"Still in a coma?"
"In and out. May take a long time."
"Yeah. That's what I heard."
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, but Fred's cart blocked the door and no one entered. The door closed.
"There's not much you can do for a kid like that," Slick explained. "I see it all the time. Kid sees something horrible in a split second, goes into shock, and it takes months to drag him out. All kinds of shrinks and stuff. Really sad. This Sway kid ain't that bad, is he?"
"I doubt it. Dr. Greenway thinks he'll snap out in a day or two. It'll take some therapy, but he'll be fine. I see it all the time. Thinking about med school myself."
Grisham, John - The Client Page 11