Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  Reggie contemplated how close she had been to death. Mafia hoods, snakes, crazy neighbors, police, guns, shock, heart attack-it would've made no difference. She was indeed fortunate to be here, racing along the expressway, soaked with perspiration, covered with insect bites, bloody from the wounds of nature, and dirty from a night in the jungle. It could've been so much worse. She'd take a hot shower at the motel, maybe sleep a little, then worry about the next move. She was exhausted from the fear and sudden shocks. She was in pain from the crawling and stooping. She was too old for this nonsense. The things lawyers do.

  Mark gently scratched the bites on his left forearm, and watched the lights of New Orleans thin as they left downtown. "Did you see that brown stuff on his face?" he asked without looking at her.

  Though the face was now forever seared into her memory, she could not, at the moment, recall any brown stuff, on it. It was a small, shriveled, partially decayed face, and one that she wished she could forget.

  "I saw only the worms," she said.

  "The brown stuff was blood," he said with the authority of a medical examiner.

  She did not wish to pursue this conversation. There were more important things to discuss now that the silence was broken.

  "I think we need to talk about your plans, now that this little escapade is behind us," she said, glancing at him.

  "We need to move fast, Reggie. Those guys will be back to get the body, don't you think?"

  "Yes. For once I agree. They might be back now, for all we know."

  He scratched the other forearm, and placed an ankle on a knee. "I've been thinking." .

  "I'm sure you have."

  "There are two things I don't like about Memphis. The heat, and the flat land. There are no hills or mountains, you know what I mean? I've always thought it would be so nice to live in the mountains, where the air is cool and the snow is deep in the wintertime. Wouldn't that be fun, Reggie?"

  She smiled to herself and changed lanes. "Sounds wonderful. Any particular mountain?"

  "Out west somewhere. I love to watch those old 'Bonanza' reruns with Hoss and Little Joe. Adam was okay, but it really ticked me off when he left. Fve watched them since I was a little kid, and I've always thought it would be neat to live out there."

  "What happened to the tall buildings and the crowded city?"

  "That was yesterday. Today, I'm thinking about mountains."

  "Is that where you want to go, Mark?"

  "I think so. Can I?"

  "It can be arranged. Right now, they'll agree to almost anything."

  He stopped scratching and locked his fingers around his knee. His, voice was tired. "I can't go back to Memphis, can I, Reggie?"

  "No," she said softly.

  "I didn't think so." He thought about this for a few seconds. "It's just as well, I guess. There's not much left there."

  "Think of it as yet another adventure, Mark. A new home, new school, new job for your mother.

  You'll have a much nicer place to live, new friends, mountains all around you if that's what you want."

  "Be honest with me, Reggie. Do you think they'll ever find me?"

  She had to say no. At that moment, he had no choice. She would run and hide with him no more. They had to either call the FBI and strike a deal, or call the FBI and turn themselves in. This little trip was about to be over.

  "No, Mark. They'll never find you. You have to trust the FBI."

  "I don't trust the FBI, and you don't either."

  "I don't completely distrust them. But right now they've got the only game in town."

  "And I have to play along with them?"

  "Unless you have a better idea."

  39

  Mark was in the shower. Reggie dialed Clint's number, and listened as the phone rang a dozen times before he answered. It was almost 3 A.M.

  "Clint, it's me."

  His voice was thick and slow. "Reggie?"

  "Yes, me, Reggie. Listen to me, Clint. Turn on the light, put your feet on the floor, and listen to me."

  "I'm listening."

  "Jason McThune's phone number, is listed in the Memphis directory. I want you to call him, and tell him you need Larry Trumann's home phone number in New Orleans. Got that?"

  "Why don't you look in the New Orleans phone book?"

  "Don't ask questions, Clint. Just do as I say. Trumann's not listed down here."

  "What's going on, Reggie?" His words were much quicker.

  "I'll call you back in fifteen minutes. Make some coffee. This could be a long day." She hung up and unlaced her muddy sneakers.

  Mark finished a quick shower, and ripped open a new package of underwear. He'd been embarrassed when Reggie bought them, but now it seemed so unimportant. He slipped into a new yellow tee shirt, and pulled on his new but dirty Wal-Mart jeans. No socks. He wasn't going anywhere for a while, according to his attorney.

  He left the tiny bathroom. Reggie was lying on the bed, shoes off, weeds and grass on the cuffs of her jeans. He sat on the edge of her bed, and stared at the wall.

  "Feel better?" she asked.

  He nodded, said nothing, then lay beside her. She pulled him close to her body, and placed an arm under his wet head. "I'm all messed up, Reggie," he said softly. "I don't know what happens next anymore."

  The tough little boy who threw rocks through windows and outsmarted killers and cops and raced fearlessly through dark woods began to cry. He bit his Up and squinted his eyes, but couldn't stop the tears. She held him closer. Then he broke, finally, and sobbed loudly with no attempt to hold it back, no effort at being tough now. He cried without shame or embarrassment. His body shook and he squeezed her arm.

  "It's okay, Mark," she whispered in his ear. "Everything's okay." With her free hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks, and squeezed him even closer. Now it was up to her. She had to be the lawyer again, the counselor who moved daringly and called the shots. His life was once again in her hands.

  The television was on but the sound was off. Its gray and blue shadows cast a dim light over the small room with its double beds and cheap furniture.

  Trumann grabbed the phone and searched the darkness for the clock. Ten minutes before four. She handed it to her husband, who took it and sat in the center of the bed. "Hello," he grunted.

  "Hi, Larry. It's me, Reggie Love, remember?"

  "Yeah. Where are you?"

  "Here in New Orleans. We need to talk, and the sooner the better."

  He almost said something smart about the hour of the day, but thought better of it. It was important, or she wouldn't be calling. "Sure. What's going on, Reg-gie?"

  "Well, we've found the body, for starters."

  Trumann was suddenly on his feet and sliding into his house shoes. "I'm listening."

  "I've seen the body, Larry. About two hours ago. I saw it with my own eyes. Smelled it too."

  "Where are you?" Trumann pressed a button on the recorder by the phone.

  "I'm at a pay phone, so no cute stuff, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "The people who buried the body tried to retrieve it last night, but they were unable to do so. Long story, Larry. I'll explain it later. I'm willing to bet they'll try again very soon."

  "Is the kid with you?"

  "Yes. He knew where it was, and we came, we saw, and we conquered. You'll have it by noon today if you do as I say."

  "Anything."

  "That's the spirit, Larry. The kid wants to cut a deal. So we need to talk."

  "When and where?"

  "Meet me in the Raintree Inn on Veterans Boulevard in Metairie. There's a grill that's open all night. How long will it take?"

  "Give me forty-five minutes."

  "The sooner you get here, the sooner you'll get the body."

  "Can I bring someone with me?"

  "Who?"

  "K. O. Lewis."

  "He's in town?"

  "Yeah. We knew you were here, so Mr. Lewis flew in a few hours ago."

  There was hesit
ation on her end. "How'd you know I was here?"

  "We have ways."

  "Who have you wired, Trumann? Talk to me. I want a straight answer." Her voice was firm, yet with a trace of panic.

  "Can I explain it when we meet?" he asked, kicking himself in the ass for opening this can of worms.

  "Explain it now," she commanded.

  "I'll be happy to explain when-"

  "Listen, asshole. I'm canceling the meeting unless you tell me right now who's been wired. Talk, Trumann."

  "Okay. We bugged the kid's mother's room at the hospital. It was a mistake. I didn't do it, okay. Memphis did it."

  "Not much. Your man Clint called yesterday afternoon and told her you guys were in New Orleans. That's all, I swear."

  "Would you lie to me, Trumann?" she asked, thinking of the tape from their first encounter.

  "I'm not lying, Reggie," Trumann insisted, thinking of the same damned tape.

  There was a long pause in which he heard nothing but her breathing. "Just you and K. O. Lewis," she said. "No one else. If Foltrigg shows up, all deals are off."

  "I swear."

  She hung up. Trumann immediately called K. O. Lewis at the Hilton. Then he called McThune in Memphis.

  Exactly forty-five minutes later, Trumman and Lewis walked nervously into the near empty grill at the Raintree Inn. Reggie waited at a table in the corner, far away from anyone. Her hair was wet and she wore no makeup. A bulky tee shirt with LSU TIGERS in purple letters was tucked into a pair of faded jeans. She sipped black coffee, and neither stood nor smiled as they approached and sat opposite her.

  "Good morning, Ms. Love," Lewis said in an attempt to be nice.

  "It's Reggie, okay, and it's too early for pleasantries. Are we alone?"

  "Of course," Lewis said. At that moment eight FBI agents were guarding the parking lot, and more were on the way.

  "No bugs, wire, body mikes, salt shakers, or ketchup bottles?"

  "None."

  A waiter appeared, and they ordered coffee.

  "Where's the kid?" Trumann asked.

  "He's around. You'll see him soon enough."

  "Is he safe?"

  "Of course he's safe. You boys couldn't catch him if he was on the streets begging for food."

  She handed Lewis a piece of paper. "These are the names of three psychiatric hospitals that specialize in children. Battenwood in Rockford, Illinois. Ridge-wood in Tallahassee. And Grant's Clinic in Phoenix. Any one of the three will do."

  Their eyes went slowly.from her face to the list. They focused and studied it. "But we've already checked with the clinic in Portland," Lewis said, puzzled.

  "I don't care where you've checked, Mr. Lewis. Take this list, and check again. I suggest you do it quickly. Call Washington, get them out of bed, and get it done."

  He folded the list and placed it under his elbow. "You, uh, you say you've seen the body," he asked, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably.

  She smiled. "I have. Less than three hours ago. Muldanno's men were trying to get it, but we scared them off."

  "We?"

  "Mark and I."

  They both studied her intently, and waited for the precious details of this wild, impossible little story. The coffee arrived, and they ignored both it and the waiter.

  "We're not eating," Reggie said rudely, and the waiter left.

  "Here's the deal," she said. "There are a few provisions, none of which are in the least bit negotiable. Do it my way, do it now, and you might get the body before Muldanno carries it away and drops it in the ocean. If you blow it, gentlemen, I doubt you'll ever get this close again."

  They nodded furiously.

  "Did you fly here on a private jet?" she asked Lewis.

  "Yes. It's the director's."

  "How many does it seat?"

  "Twenty or so."

  "Good. Send it back to Memphis right now. I want you to pick up Dianne and Ricky Sway, along with his doctor and Clint. Fly them here immediately. McThune is welcome to come. We'll meet them at the airport, and when Mark is safely on board and the plane is gone, I'll tell you where the body is. How about it so far?"

  "No problem," Lewis said. Trumann was speechless.

  "The entire family enters the witness protection plan. First, they pick the hospital, and when Ricky is able to move, they'll pick the city."

  "No problem."

  "Complete change of identification, nice little house, the works. This woman needs to stay home and raise her kids for a while, so I'd suggest a monthly allowance in the sum of four thousand dollars, guaranteed for three years. Plus an initial cash outlay of twenty-five thousand. They lost everything in the fire, remember?"

  "Of course. These things are easy." Lewis was so eager, she wished she'd asked for more.

  "If, at some point, she wants to return to work, then I'd suggest a nice, cushy government job with no responsibilities, short hours, and a fat salary."

  "We have plenty of those."

  "Should they desire to move at any time, ana 10 any place, they'll be allowed to do so, at your expense, of course."

  "We do it all the time."

  Trumann was smiling now, though he was trying not to.

  "She"U need a car."

  "No problem."

  "Ricky may need extended treatment."

  "We'll cover it."

  "I want Mark examined by a psychiatrist, though I suspect he's in better shape than we are."

  "Done."

  "There are a couple of other minor matters, and they'll be covered in the agreement."

  "What agreement?"

  "The agreement I'm having typed as we speak. It'll be signed by myself, Dianne Sway, Judge Harry Roosevelt, and you, Mr. Lewis, on behalf of Director Voyles."

  "What else is in the agreement?" Lewis asked.

  "I want your assurance that you'll do everything in your power to compel the attendance of Roy Foltrigg before the Juvenile Court of Shelby County, Tennessee. Judge Roosevelt will want to discuss a few matters with him, and I'm sure Foltrigg will resist. If a subpoena is issued for him, I want it served by you, Mr. Trumann."

  "Gladly," Trumann said with a nasty smile.

  "We'll do what we can," Lewis added, a bit confused.

  "Good. Go make your phone calls. Get the plane in the air. Call McThune and tell him to pick up Clint Van Hooser and take him to the hospital. Get that

  damned bug off her phone, because I need to talk to her."

  "No problem." They jumped to their feet.

  "We'll meet right here in thirty minutes,"

  Clint hammered away on his ancient royal portable.

  His third cup of coffee shook each time he slapped the return and rattled the kitchen table. He studied his hurried chicken-scratch handwriting on the back of an Esquire, and tried to remember each provision as she'd spouted it over the phone. If he finished it, it would be, without a doubt, the sloppiest legal document ever prepared. He cursed and grabbed the Liquid Paper.

  A knock on the door startled him. He ran his fingers through his unkempt and unwashed hair, and walked to the door. "Who is it?"

  "FBI."

  Not so loud, he almost said. He could hear the neighbors now, gossiping about him and his predawn arrest. Probably drugs, they would say.

  He cracked the door and peeked under the safety chain. Two agents with puffy eyes stood in the darkness. "We were told to come get you," one said apologetically.

  "I need some ID."

  They stuck their badges near the door. "FBI," the first one said.

  Clint opened the door wider, and waved them in. "I'll be a few more minutes. Have a seat."

  They stood awkwardly in the center of the den as he returned to the table and the typewriter. He pecked slowly. The chicken scratch failed him, and he ad-libbed the rest. The important points were there, he hoped. She always found something to change in his typing at the office, but this would have to do. He pulled it carefully from the Royal, and placed it in a small brief
case.

  "Let's go," he said.

  At five-forty, Trumann returned alone to the table where Reggie waited. He brought two cellular phones. "Thought we might need these," he said.

  "Where'd you get them?" Reggie asked.

  "They were delivered to us here."

  "By some of your men?"

  "That's right."

  "Just for fun, how many men do you have right now within a quarter of a mile of this place?"

  "I don't know. Twelve or thirteen. It's routine, Reggie. They might be needed. We'll send a few to protect the kid, if you'll tell me where he is. I assume he's alone."

  "He's alone, and he's fine. Did you talk to McThune?"

  "Yes. They've already picked up Clint."

  "That was fast."

  "Well, to be honest, we've had men watching his apartment for twenty-four hours now. We simply woke them up, and told them to knock on his door. We found your car, Reggie, but we couldn't find Clint's."

  "I'm driving it."

  "That's what I figured. Pretty slick, but we would've found you within twenty-four hours."

  "Don't be so cocky, Trumann. You've been looking for Boyette for eight months."

  "True. How'd the kid escape?"

  "It's a long story. I'll save it for later."

  "You could be implicated, you know."

  "Not if you guys sign our little agreement."

  "We'll sign it, don't worry." One of the phones rang, and Trumann grabbed it. As he listened, K. O. Lewis hurried to the table and brought his own cellular phone. He jumped into his chair, and leaned across the table, his eyes glowing with excitement. "Talked to Washington. We're checking the hospitals right now. Everything looks fine. Director Voyles will call here in a minute. He'll probably want to talk to you."

  "How about the plane?"

  Lewis checked his watch. "It's leaving now, should be in Memphis by six-thirty."

  Trumann placed a hand over his phone. "This is McThune. He's at the hospital waiting for Dr. Greenway and the administrator. They've made contact with Judge Roosevelt, and he's on his way down there."

  "Have you debugged her phone?" Reggie asked.