Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  "Yes."

  "Removed the salt shakers?"

  "No salt shakers. Everything's clean."

  "Good. Tell him to call back in twenty minutes," she said.

  Trumann mumbled into the phone and flipped a switch. Within seconds, K.O.'s phone beeped. He stuck it to his head, and broke into a large smile. "Yes sir," he said most respectfully. "Just a second."

  He jabbed the phone at Reggie. "It's Director Voyles. He'd like to speak with you."

  Reggie took it slowly, and said, "This is Reggie Love." Lewis and Trumann watched like two kids waiting for ice cream.

  A deep and very clear voice came from the other end. Though Denton Voyles had never been tond ot the press during his forty-two years as director of the FBI, they occasionally captured a brief word or two. The voice was familiar. "Ms. Love, this is Denton Voyles. How are you?"

  "Just fine. The name's Reggie, okay."

  "Sure, Reggie. Listen, K.O. just brought me up-to-date, and I want to assure you the FBI will do anything you want to protect this kid and his family. K.O. has full authority to act for me. We'll also protect you if you wish."

  "I'm more concerned about the child, Denton."

  Trumann and Lewis glanced at each other. She had just called him Denton, a feat no one had dared to attempt before. And she was not the least disrespectful.

  "If you want, you can fax me the agreement here and I'll sign it myself," he said.

  "That won't be necessary, but thanks."

  "And my plane is at your disposal."

  "Thank you."

  "And I promise that we'll see to it that Mr. Foltrigg has to face the music in Memphis. We had nothing to do with the grand jury subpoenas, you understand?"

  "Yes, I know."

  "Good luck to you, Reggie. You guys work out the details. Lewis can move mountains. Call me if you need me. I'll be at the office all day."

  "Thank you," she said, and handed the phone back to K. O. Lewis, the mountain mover.

  The assistant night manager of the grill, a young man of no more than nineteen with a peach-fuzz mustache and an attitude, walked to the table. These people had been here for an hour, and from all indications they had set up camp. There were three phones in the center of the table. Some papers were lying about. The woman wore a sweatshirt and jeans. One of the men wore a cap and no socks. "Excuse me," he said curtly, "can I be of assistance?"

  Trumann glanced over his shoulder, and snapped, "No."

  He hesitated, and took a step closer. "I'm the assistant night manager, and I demand to know what you're doing here."

  Trumann snapped his fingers loudly, and two gentlemen reading the Sunday paper at a table not far away jumped to their feet and whipped badges from their pockets. They stuck them into the face of the assistant night manager. "FBI," they said together as they each took an arm and led him away. He did not return. The grill was still deserted.

  A phone rang, and Lewis took it. He listened carefully. Reggie opened the Sunday New Orleans paper. At the bottom of the front page was her face. The picture was taken from the bar registry, and it was next to Mark's fourth-grade class photo. Side by side. Escaped. Disappeared. On the run. Boyette and all that. She turned to the comics.

  "That was Washington," Lewis reported as he placed the phone on the table. "The clinic in Rockford is full. They're checking on the other two."

  Reggie nodded and sipped her coffee. The sun was making its first efforts of the day. Her eyes were red and her head was hurting, but the adrenaline was pumping. With a little luck, she would be home by dark.

  "Look, Reggie, could you give us an idea how long it'll take to get to the body?" Trumann asked with great caution, tie aian t wam iu upset her. But he needed to start planning. "Muldanno's still out there, and if he gets it first, we're all up a creek." He paused and waited for her to say something. "It's in the city, right?"

  "If you don't get lost, you should be able to find it in fifteen minutes."

  "Fifteen minutes," he repeated slowly, as if this were too good to be true. Fifteen minutes.

  40

  Clint hadn't smoked a cigarette in four years, but he found himself puffing nervously on a Virginia Slim. Dianne had one too, and they stood at the end of the hall and watched as the day broke over downtown Memphis. Greenway was in the room with Ricky. Next door, Jason McThune, the hospital administrator, and a small collection of FBI agents waited. Both Clint and Dianne had talked to Reggie in the past thirty minutes.

  "The director has given his word," Clint said, sucking hard on the narrow cigarette, trying to extract a little smoke. "There's no other choice, Dianne."

  She stared through the window with one arm across her chest and the other hand holding the cigarette near her mouth. "We just leave, right? We just get on the plane and fly off into the sunset, and everybody lives happily ever after?"

  "Something like that."

  "What if I don't want to, Clint?"

  "You can't say no."

  "Why not?"

  "It's very simple. Your son has made the decision to talk. He's also made the decision to enter the witness protection program, so like it or not, you have to go too. You and Ricky."

  "I'd like to talk to my son."

  "You can talk to him in New Orleans. If you can change his mind, then the deal's off. Reggie's not dropping the big news until you guys are on the plane and in the air."

  Clint was trying to be firm, yet compassionate. She was scared, weak, and vulnerable. Her hands trembled as she placed the filter between her lips.

  "Ms. Sway," a heavy voice said from behind. They turned to find the Honorable Harry M. Roosevelt standing behind them in a massive, bright blue jogging suit with Memphis State Tigers emblazoned across the front. It had to be a triple extra-large, and it stopped six inches above his ankles. A pair of ancient but seldom used running shoes covered his long feet. He was holding the two-page agreement Clint had typed.

  She acknowledged his presence but said nothing.

  "Hello, Your Honor," Clint said quietly.

  "I just talked to Reggie," he said to Dianne. "I'd say they've had a rather eventful trip." He stepped between them and ignored Clint. "I've read this agreement, and I'm inclined to sign it. I think it's in the best interests of Mark for you to do the same."

  "Is that an order?" she asked.

  "No. I do not have the power to bind you to this agreement," he said, then flashed a huge, warm smile. "But I would if I could."

  She placed the cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill, and stuck both hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. "And if I don't?"

  "Then Mark will be returned here, placed back in detention, and beyond that, who knows. He will eventually be forced to talk. The situation is much more urgent now."

  "Why?"

  "Because we now know for a fact that Mark knows where the body is. So does Reggie. They could be in great danger. You're at the point, Ms. Sway, where you have to trust people."

  "That's easy for you to say."

  "Indeed it is. But if I were you, I'd sign this and get on the plane."

  Dianne slowly took the agreement from his honor. "Let's go talk to Dr. Greenway."

  They followed her down the hall to the room next to Ricky's.

  Twenty minutes later, the ninth floor of St. Peter's was sealed off by a dozen FBI agents. The waiting room was evacuated. The nurses were told to remain at their station. Three of the elevators were stopped on the ground floor. The other was held in place on the ninth by an agent.

  The door to Room 943 opened, and little Ricky Sway, drugged and sound asleep, was wheeled into the hallway on a stretcher pushed by Jason McThune and Clint Van Hooser. On this, his sixth day of confinement, he was no better than when he first arrived. Greenway walked along one side, Dianne the other. Harry followed along for a few steps, then stopped.

  The stretcher was pushed into the waiting elevator, which descended to the fourth floor, also secured by FBI agents. It was rushed a short distance to a
service elevator, where Agent Durston held the door, then taken to the second floor, also secured. Ricky never moved. Dianne held his arm and jogged beside the stretcher.

  They maneuvered through a series of short corridors and metal doors, and were suddenly on a flat roof. A helicopter was waiting. Ricky was loaded quickly, and Dianne, Clint, and McThune climbed aboard.

  Minutes later, the helicopter landed near a hangar at Memphis International Airport. A half dozen FBI agents guarded the pad as Ricky was rolled to a nearby jet.

  At ten minutes before seven, a cellular phone rang at the corner table of the Raintree Grill, and Trumann grabbed it. He listened and checked his watch. "They're in the air," he announced, and set the phone down. Lewis was talking to Washington again.

  Reggie breathed deeply and smiled at Trumann. "The body's in concrete. You'll need a few hammers and chisels."

  Trumann choked on his orange juice. "Okay. Anything else?"

  "Yeah. Place a couple of your boys near the intersection of St. Joseph and Carondelet."

  "Close by?"

  "Just do it, okay."

  "Done. Anything else?"

  "I'll be back in a minute." Reggie walked to the registration desk, and asked the clerk to check the fax machine. The clerk returned with a copy of the two-page agreement, which Reggie read closely. The typing was horrible, but the words were perfect. She returned to the table. "Let's get Mark," she said.

  Mark finished brushing his teeth for the third time, and sat on the edge of the bed. His black-and-gold Saints canvas bag was packed with dirty clothes and new underwear. Cartoons were on, but he was not interested.

  He heard a car door, then footsteps, then a knock. "Mark, it's me," Reggie said.

  He opened the door, but she did not step inside. "Are you ready to go?"

  "I guess." The sun was up and the parking lot was visible. A familiar face was behind her. It was one of the FBI agents from the first meeting at the hospital. Mark grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the parking lot. Three cars were waiting. A man opened the rear door of the middle car, and Mark and his attorney got in.

  The little motorcade sped away.

  "Everything's fine," Reggie said, taking his hand. The two men in the front seat stared straight ahead. "Ricky and your mother are on the plane. They'll be here in about an hour. Are you okay?"

  "I guess. Have you told them?" he whispered.

  "Not yet," she answered. "Not until you're on the plane and in the air."

  "Are all these guys FBI agents?"

  She nodded and patted his hand. He suddenly felt important, sitting in the rear of his own black car, being rushed to the airport to board a private jet, cops all around just to protect him. He crossed his legs and sat a bit straighter.

  He'd never flown before.

  41

  Barry paced nervously before the tinted windows in Johnny's office, and watched the tugs and barges on the river. His nasty eyes were red, but not from booze or partying. He hadn't slept. He'd waited at the warehouse for the body to be delivered to him, and when Leo and company arrived around one without it, he had called his uncle.

  Johnny, on this fine Sunday morning, was wearing neither tie nor suspenders. He paced slowly behind his desk, puffing blue smoke from his third cigar of the day. A thick cloud hung not far above his head.

  The screaming and ass chewing had ended hours before. Barry had cursed Leo and Lonucci and the Bull, and Leo had cursed back. But with time, the panic subsided. Throughout the night, Leo had periodically driven by Clifford's house, always in a different vehicle, and seeing nothing unusual. The body was still there.

  Johnny decided to wait twenty-four hours and try again. They would watch the place during the day, and attack with full force after dark. The Bull assured him he could have the body out of the concrete in ten minutes.

  Just be cool, Johnny had told everyone. Just be cool.

  Roy Foltrigg finished the sunday paper on the patio of his suburban split-level, and walked barefooted across the wet grass with a cup of cold coffee. He had slept little. He had waited in the darkness on his front porch for the paper to arrive, then ran to fetch it in his pajamas and bathrobe. He had called Trumann, but, strangely, Mrs. Trumann wasn't sure where her husband had gone.

  He inspected his wife's rosebushes along the back fence, and asked himself for the hundredth time where Mark Sway would run to. There was no doubt, at least in his mind, that Reggie had helped him escape. She'd obviously gone crazy again, and run off with the kid. He smiled to himself. He'd have the pleasure of busting her ass.

  The hangar was a quarter of a mile from the main terminal, in a row of identical buildings all drab gray and sitting quietly together. The words Gulf Air were painted in orange letters above the tall double doors, which were opening as the three cars stopped in front of the hangar. The floor was sparkling concrete, painted green without a speck of dirt and covered with nothing but two private jets side by side in a far corner. A few lights were on, and their reflections glowed on the green floor. The building was big enough for a stock car race, Mark thought as he stretched his neck for a glimpse of the two jets.

  With the doors out of the way, the entire front of the hangar was now open. Three men walked hurriedly along the back wall as if searching for something. Two more stood by one door. Outside, another half dozen moved slowly about, keeping their distance from the cars that had just parked.

  "Who are these people?" Mark asked in the general direction of the front seat.

  "They're with us," Trumann said.

  "They're FBI agents," Reggie clarified.

  "Why so many?"

  "They're just being careful," she said. "How much longer, do you think?" she asked Trumann.

  He glanced at his watch. "Probably thirty minutes."

  "Let's walk around," she said, opening her door. As if on cue, the other eleven doors in the little parade opened and the cars emptied. Mark looked around at the other hangars, and the terminal, and a plane landing on the runway in front of them. This had become terribly exciting. Not three weeks earlier, he'd beaten the crap out of a subdivision kid at school after the kid taunted him because he'd never flown. If they could only see him now. Rushed to the airport by private car, waiting for his private jet to take him anywhere he wanted to go. No more trailers. No more fights with subdivision kids. No more notes to Mom, because now she would be at home. He'd decided, sitting alone in the motel room, that this was a wonderful idea. He'd come to New Orleans and outsmarted the Mafia in its own backyard, and he could do it again.

  He caught a few stares from the agents by the door. They cut their eyes quickly at him, then looked away. Just checking him out. Maybe he'd sign some autographs later.

  He followed Reggie into the vast hangar, and the two private jets caught his attention. They were like small, shiny toys sitting under the Christmas tree waiting to be played with. One was black, the other silver, and Mark stared at them.

  A man in an orange shirt with Gulf Air on a patch above the pocket closed the door to a small office inside the hangar and walked in their direction. K. O. Lewis met him, and they talked quietly. The man waved at the office, and said something about coffee.

  Larry Trumann knelt beside Mark, still staring at the jets. "Mark, do you remember me?" he asked with a smile.

  "Yes sir. I met you at the hospital."

  "That's right. My name's Larry Trumann." He offered his hand, and Mark shook it slowly. Children are not supposed to shake hands with adults. "I'm an FBI agent here in New Orleans."

  Mark nodded and kept staring at the jets.

  "Would you like to look at them?" Trumann asked.

  "Can I?" he asked, suddenly friendly to Trumann.

  "Sure." Trumann stood and placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. They walked slowly across the gleaming concrete, the sounds of Trumann's steps echoing upward. They stopped in front of the black jet. "Now, this is a Learjet," Trumann began.

  Reggie and K. O. Lewis left the small office wi
th tall cups of steaming coffee. The agents who'd escorted them had slipped into the shadows of the hangar. They sipped what must've been their tenth cup of this long morning, and watched as Trumann and the kid inspected the jets.

  "He's a brave kid," Lewis said.

  "He's remarkable," Reggie said. "At times he thinks like a terrorist, then he cries like a little child."

  "He is a child."

  "I know. But don't tell him. It may upset him, and, hell, who knows what he might do." She took a long sip. "Truly remarkable."

  K.O. blew into his cup, then took a tiny sip. "We've pulled some strings. There's a room waiting for Ricky at-Grant's Clinic in Phoenix. We need to know if that's the destination. The pilot called five minutes ago. He has to get clearance, file a flight plan, you know."

  "Phoenix it is. Complete confidentiality, okay? Register the kid under another name. Same for the mother and Mark. Keep some of your boys nearby. I want you to pay for his doctor's trip out there and for a few days of work."

  "No problem. The people in Phoenix have no idea what's coming. Have you guys talked about a permanent home?"

  "A little, not much. Mark says he wants to live in the mountains."

  "Vancouver's nice. We vacationed there last summer. Absolutely gorgeous."

  "Out of the country?"

  "No problem. Director Voyles said they can go anywhere. We've placed a few witnesses outside the States, and I think the Sways are perfect candidates. These people will be taken care of, Reggie. You have my word."

  The man in the orange shirt joined Mark and Trumann, and was now in charge of the tour. He lowered the steps to the black Lear, and the three disappeared inside.

  "I must confess," Lewis said after he swallowed another scalding dose of coffee, "I was never convinced the kid knew."

  "Clifford told him everything. He knew exactly where it was."

  "Did you?"

  "No. Not until yesterday. When he first came to my office, he told me that he knew, but he didn't tell me where it was. Thank God for that. He kept it to himself until we were near the body yesterday afternoon."