Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  To everyone except Boxx and Foltrigg, the humor in this was delicious. The idea of the reverend plotting strategies that did not include cameras was unheard of. He, of course, did not realize it. He bit his lip and nodded his head. Yes, yes, this was the best course. This would work.

  Bobby cleared his throat. "There is one other possible approach, and I don't like it but it's -worth mentioning. A real long shot. If you assume the kid knows-"

  "He knows."

  "Ihank you. Assuming tnis, ana assuming ne nas confided in his lawyer, there is the possibility of a federal indictment against her for obstruction of justice. I don't have to tell you the difficulty in piercing the attorney-client privilege; it's virtually impossible. The indictment would, of course, be used to sort of scare her into cutting some deal. I don't know. As 1 said, a real long shot."

  Foltrigg chewed on this for a second, but his mind was still churning over the first plan and it simply couldn't digest the second.

  "A conviction might be difficult," Fink said.

  "Yep," Bobby agreed. "But a conviction would not be the goal. She would be indicted here, a long way from home, and I think it would be quite intimidating. Lots of bad press. Couldn't keep this one quiet, you know. She'd be forced to hire a lawyer. We could string it out for months, you know, the works. You might even consider obtaining the indictment, keeping it sealed, breaking the news to her, and offering some deal in return for its dismissal. Just a thought."

  "I like it," Foltrigg said to no one's surprise. It had the stench of the government's jackboot, and these strategies always appealed to him. "And we can always dismiss the indictment anytime we want."

  Ah yes! The Roy Foltrigg special. Get the indictment, hold the press conference, beat the defendant to the ground with all sorts of threats, cut the deal, then quietly dismiss the indictment a year later. He'd done it a hundred times in seven years. He'd also eaten a few of his specials when the defendant and/or his lawyer refused to deal and insisted on a trial. When this happened Foltrigg was always too busy with more important prosecutions, and the file was thrown at one of the younger assistants, who invariably got his ass kicked. Invariably, Foltrigg placed the blame squarely on the assistant. He'd even fired one for losing the trial brought about by a Roy Foltrigg special.

  "That's Plan B, okay, on hold for right now," he said, very much in control. "Plan A is to file a petition in Juvenile Court first thing tomorrow morning. How long will it take to prepare it?"

  "An hour," answered Tank Mozingo, a burly assistant with the ponderous name of Thurston Alomar Mozingo, thus known simply as Tank. "The petition is set out in the code. We simply add the allegations and fill in the blanks."

  "Get it done." He turned to Fink. "Thomas, you'll handle this. Get on the phone to Ord and ask him to help us. Fly to Memphis tonight. I want the petition filed first thing in the morning, after you talk to the judge. Tell him how urgent this is." Papers shuffled around the table as the research group began cleaning its mess. Their work was over. Fink took notes as Boxx darted for a legal pad. Foltrigg spewed forth instructions like King Solomon dictating to his scribes. "Ask the judge for an expedited hearing. Explain how much pressure is behind this. Ask for complete confidentiality, including the closing of the petition and all other pleadings. Stress this, you understand. I'll be sitting by the phone in case I'm needed."

  Bobby was buttoning his cuffs. "Look, Roy, there's something else we need to mention."

  "What is it?"

  "We're playing hardball with this kid. Let's not forget the danger he's in. Muldanno is desperate. There are reporters everywhere. A leak here and a leak there, and the mob could silence tne Kid beiore ne tauts. There's a lot at stake."

  Roy flashed a confident smile. "I know that, Bobby. In fact, Muldanno's already sent his boys to Memphis. The FBI up there is tracking them, and they're also watching the boy. Personally, I don't think Muldanno's stupid enough to try something, but we're not taking chances." Roy stood and smiled around the room. "Good work, men. I appreciate it."

  They mumbled their thank-yous and left the library.

  On the fourth floor of the Radisson Hotel in downtown Memphis, two blocks from the Sterick Building and five blocks from St. Peter's, Paul Gronke played a monotonous game of gin rummy with Mack Bono, a Muldanno grunt from New Orleans. A heavily marked score sheet was on the floor under the table, abandoned. They had been playing for a dollar a game, but now no one cared. Gronke's shoes were on the bed. His shirt was unbuttoned. Heavy cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling. They were drinking bottled water-because it was not yet five, but almost, and when the magic hour hit they'd call room service. Gronke checked his watch. He looked through the window at the buildings across Union Avenue. He played a card. Gronke was a childhood friend of Muldanno's, a most trusted partner in many of his dealings. He owned a few bars and a tourist tee-shirt shop in the Quarter. He'd broken his share of legs and had helped the Blade do the same. He did not know where Boyd Boyette was buried, and he wasn't about to ask, but if he pressed hard his friend would probably tell him. They were very close.

  Gronke was in Memphis because the Blade had called him. And he was bored as hell sitting in this hotel room playing cards with his shoes off, drinking water and eating sandwiches, smoking Camels and waiting for the next move by an eleven-year-old kid.

  Across the double beds, an open door led to the next room. It, too, had two beds and a cloud of smoke whirling around the ceiling vents. Jack Nance stood in the window watching the rush-hour traffic leave downtown. A radio and a cellular phone stood ready on a nearby table. Any minute Cal Sisson would call from the hospital with the latest.about Mark Sway. A thick briefcase was open on one bed, and Nance in his boredom had spent most of the afternoon playing with his bugging devices.

  He had a plan to drop a bug in Room 943. He had seen the lawyer's office, absent of special locks on the door, absent of cameras overhead, absent of any security devices. Typical lawyer. Wiring it would be easy. Cal Sisson had visited the doctor's office and found pretty much the same. A receptionist at a front desk. Sofas and chairs for the patients to wait for their shrink. A couple of drab offices down a hall. No special security. The client, this clown who liked to be called the Blade, had approved the wiring of the telephones in both the doctor's and lawyer's office. He also wanted files copied. Easy work. He also wanted a bug planted in Ricky's room. Easy work too, but the difficult part was receiving the transmission once the bug was in place. Nance was working on this.

  As far as Nance was concerned, it was simply a surveillance job, nothing more or less. The client was paying top aouar in cash. n ne wanted a cimu it was easy. If he wanted to eavesdrop, no problem as long as he was paying.

  But Nance had read the newspapers. And he had heard the whispers in the room next door. There was more here than simple surveillance. Broken legs and arms were not being discussed over gin rummy. These guys were deadly, and Gronke had already mentioned calling New Orleans for more help.

  Cal Sisson was ready to bolt. He was fresh off probation, and another conviction would send him back for decades. A conviction for conspiracy to commit murder would send him away for life. Nance had convinced him to hold tight for one more day.

  The cellular phone rang. It was Sisson. The lawyer just arrived at the hospital. Mark Sway's in Room 943 with his mother and lawyer.

  Nance placed the phone on the table and walked into the other room.

  "Who was it?" Gronke asked with a Camel in his mouth.

  "Cal. Kid's still at the hospital, now with his mother and his lawyer."

  "Where's the doctor?"

  "He left an hour ago." Nance walked to the dresser and poured a glass of water.

  "Any sign of the feds?" Gronke grunted.

  "Yeah. Same two are hanging around the hospital. Doing the same thing we are, I guess. The hospital's keeping two security guards by the door, and another one close by."

  "You think the kid told them about meeting me this morning?" Gro
nke asked for the hundredth time that day.

  "He told someone. Why else would they suddenly surround his room with security guards?"

  "Yeah, but the security guards are not fibbies, are they? If he'd told the fibbies, then they'd be sitting in the hall, don't you think?"

  "Yeah." This conversation had been repeated throughout the day. Who did the kid tell? Why were there suddenly guards by the door? And on and on. Gronke couldn't get enough of it.

  Despite his arrogance and street-punk posture, he seemed to be a man of patience. Nance figured it went with the territory. Killers had to be cold-blooded and patient.

  18

  They left the hospital in her mazda, his first ride in a sports car. The seats were leather but the floor was dirty. The car was not new, but it was cool, with a stick shift that she worked like a veteran race car driver. She said she liked to drive fast, which was fine with Mark. They darted through traffic as they left downtown and headed east. It was almost dark. The radio was on but barely audible, some FM station specializing in easy listening.

  Ricky was awake when they left. He was staring at cartoons but saying little. A sad little tray of hospital food sat on the table, untouched by either Ricky or Dianne. Mark had not seen his mother eat three bites in two days. He felt sorry for her sitting there on the bed, staring at Ricky, worrying herself to death. The news from Reggie about the job and the raise had made her smile. Then it made her cry.

  Mark was sick of the crying and the cold peas and the dark, cramped room, and he felt guilty for leaving but was delighted to be here in this sports car headed, he hoped, for a plate of hot, heavy food with warm bread. Clint had mentioned inside-out ravioli and spinach lasagna, and for some reason visions of these rich, meaty dishes had stuck in his mind. Maybe there would be a cake and some cookies. But if Momma Love served green Jell-O, he might throw it at her.

  He thought of these things as Reggie thought of being tailed. Her eyes went from the traffic to the mirror, and back again. She drove much too fast, zipping between cars and changing lanes, which didn't bother Mark one bit.

  "You think Mom and Ricky are safe?" he asked, watching the cars in front.

  "Yes. Don't worry about them. The hospital promised to keep guards at the door." She had talked to George Ord, her new pal, and explained her concern about the safety of the Sway family. She did not mention any specific threats, though Ord had asked. The family was getting unwanted attention, she had explained. Lots of rumors and gossip, most of it generated by a frustrated media. Ord had talked to McThune, then called her back and said the FBI would stay close to the room, but out of sight. She thanked him.

  Ord and McThune were amused by it. The FBI already had people in the hospital. Now they had been invited.

  She suddenly turned to the right at an intersection, and the tires squealed. Mark chuckled, and she laughed as though it was all fun but her stomach was flipping. They were on a smaller street with old homes and large oaks.

  "This is my neighborhood," she said. It was certainly nicer than his. They turned again, to another narrower street where the houses were smaller but still two and three stories tall with deep lawns and manicured hedgerows.

  "Why do you take your clients home?" he asked.

  "I don't know. Most of my clients are children who come from awful homes. I feel sorry for them, I guess. I get attached to them."

  "Do you feel sorry for me?"

  "A litde. But you're lucky, Mark, very lucky. You have a mother who's a good woman and who loves you very much."

  "Yeah, I guess so. What time is it?"

  "Almost six. Why?"

  Mark thought a second and counted the hours. "Forty-nine hours ago Jerome Clifford shot himself. I wish we'd simply run away when we saw his car."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "I don't know. It was like I just had to do something once I realized what was going on. I couldn't run away. He was about to die, and I just couldn't ignore it. Something kept pulling me to his car. Ricky was crying and begging me to stop, but I just couldn't. This is all my fault."

  "Maybe, but you can't change it, Mark. It's done." She glanced at her mirror and saw nothing.

  "Do you think we're gonna be okay? I mean, Ricky and me and Mom? When this is all over, will things be like they were?"

  She slowed and turned into a narrow driveway lined with thick, untrimmed hedges. "Ricky will be fine. It might take time, but he'll be all right. Kids are tough, Mark. I see it every day."

  "What about me?"

  "Everything will work out, Mark. Just trust me." The Mazda stopped beside a large two-story house with a porch around the front ot it. snruos aim HUWCLS grew to the windows. Ivy covered one end of the porch.

  "Is this your house?" he asked, almost in awe.

  "My parents bought it fifty-three years ago, the year before I was born. This is where I grew up. My daddy died when I was fifteen, but Momma Love, bless her heart, is still here."

  "You call her Momma Love?"

  "Everyone calls her Momma Love. She's almost eighty, and in better shape than me." She pointed to a garage straight ahead, behind the house. "You see those three windows above the garage? That's where I live."

  Like the house, the garage needed a good coat of paint on the trim. Both were old and handsome, but there were weeds in the flower beds and grass growing in the cracks of the driveway.

  They entered through a side door, and the aroma from the kitchen hit Mark hard. He was suddenly starving. A small woman with gray hair in a tight ponytail and dark eyes met them and hugged Reggie.

  "Momma Love, meet Mark Sway," Reggie said, waving at him. He and Momma Love were exactly the same height, and she gently hugged him and pecked him on the cheek. He stood stiff, uncertain how to greet a strange eighty-year-old woman.

  "Nice to meet you, Mark," she said in his face. Her voice was strong and sounded much like Reggie's. She took his arm and led him to the kitchen table. "Have a seat right here, and I'll get you something to drink."

  Reggie grinned at him as if to say "Just do as she says because you have no choice." She hung her umbrella on a rack behind the door and laid her briefcase on the floor.

  The kitchen was small and cluttered with cabinets and shelves along three walls. Steam rose from the gas stove. A wooden table with four chairs sat squarely in the center of the room with pots and pans hanging from a beam above it. The kitchen was warm and created instant hunger.

  Mark took the nearest chair and watched Momma Love scoot around, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, opening the refrigerator, filling the glass with ice, pouring tea from a pitcher.

  Reggie kicked off her shoes and •was stirring something in a pot on the stove. She and Momma Love chatted back and forth, the usual routine of how the day went and who'd called. A cat stopped at Mark's chair and examined him.

  "That's Axle," Momma Love said as she served the ice tea -with a cloth napkin. "She's seventeen years old, and very gentle."

  Mark drank the tea and left Axle alone. He was not fond of cats.

  "How's your little brother?" Momma Love asked.

  "He's doing much better," he said, and suddenly wondered how much Reggie had told her mother. Then he relaxed. If Clint knew very little, Momma Love probably knew even less. He took another sip. She -waited for a longer answer. "He started talking today."

  "That's wonderful!" she exclaimed with a huge smile, and patted him on the shoulder.

  Reggie poured her tea from a different pitcher, and doctored it with sweetener and lemon. She sat across from Mark at the table, and Axle jumped into her lap. She sipped tea, rubbed the cat, and began slowly removing her jewelry. She was tired.

  "Are you hungry?" Momma Love asked, suddenly darting around the kitchen, opening the oven, stirring the pot, closing a drawer.

  "Yes ma'am."

  "It's so nice to hear a young man with manners," she said as she stopped for a second and smiled at him. "Most of Reggie's kids have no manners. I haven't heard a 'yes ma'am' in t
his house in years." Then she was off again, wiping out a pan and placing it in the sink.

  Reggie winked at him. "Mark's been eating hospital food for three days, Momma Love, so he wants to know what you're cooking."

  "It's a surprise," she said, opening the oven and releasing a thick aroma of meat and cheese and tomatoes. "But I think you'll like it, Mark."

  He was certain he would like it. Reggie winked at him again as she twisted her head and removed a set of small diamond earrings. The pile of jewelry in front of her now included half a dozen bracelets, two rings, a necklace, a watch, and the earrings. Axle was watching it too. Momma Love was suddenly hacking away with a large knife on a cutting board. She whirled around and laid a basket of bread, hot and buttery, in front of him. "I bake bread every Wednesday," she said, patting his shoulder again, then off to the stove.

  Mark grabbed the biggest slice and took a bite. It was soft and warm, unlike any bread he'd eaten. The butter and garlic melted instantly on his tongue.

  "Momma Love is full-blooded Italian," Reggie said, stroking Axle. "Both her parents were born in

  Italy and immigrated to this country in 1902. I'm half Italian."

  "Who was Mr. Love?" Mark asked, chomping away, butter on his lips and fingers.

  "A Memphis boy. They were married when she was sixteen-"

  "Seventeen," Momma Love corrected her without turning around.

  Momma Love was now setting the table with plates and flatware. Reggie and her jewelry were in the •way, so she gathered it all up and kicked and nudged Axle to the floor. "When do we eat, Momma Love?" she asked.