The Client (Page 29)
Reggie took pages of notes. She knew Mark had been in the car, but she had no idea he’d left such a wide trail.
"The whiskey bottle?" she asked.
Foltrigg flipped a page for the details. "Yes, three definite prints. No question about it." Mark had told her, about the gun, but not about the bottle. "Seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?" x "It’s all strange at this point. The police officers who talked to him do not recall smelling alcohol, so I don’t think he drank any of it. I’m sure he could explain it, you know, if only we could talk to him." "I’ll ask him." "So he didn’t tell you about the bottle?" "No." "Did he explain the gun?" "I cannot divulge what my client has explained to me." Foltrigg waited desperately for a hint, and this really angered him. Trumann likewise waited breathlessly. McThune stopped reading the report of a court-appointed psychiatrist.
"So he hasn’t told you everything?" Foltrigg asked.
"He’s told me a lot. It’s possible he missed some of the details." "These details could be crucial." "I’ll determine what’s crucial and what’s not. What else do you have?" "Hand her the note," Foltrigg instructed Trumann, who produced it from a file and handed it to her. She read it slowly, then read it again. Mark had not mentioned the note.
"Obviously two different pens," Foltrigg explained. "We found the blue one in the car, a cheap Bic, out of ink. Just speculating, it looks as though Clifford tried to add something after Mark left the car. The word ‘where’ seems to indicate the boy was gone. It’s obvious they talked, exchanged names, and that the kid was in the car long enough to touch everything." "No prints on this?" she asked, waving the note.
"None. We’ve checked it thoroughly. The kid did not touch it." She calmly placed it next to her legal pad and folded her hands together. "Well, Roy, I think the big question is, How did you guys match his fingerprints? How did you obtain one of his to match with the ones in the car?" She asked this with the same confident sneer Trumann and McThune had seen when she produced the tape less than four hours ago.
"Very simple. We lifted one off a soft drink can at the hospital last night." "Did you ask either Mark Sway or his mother before doing so?" "No." "So you invaded the privacy of an eleven-year-old child." "No. We are trying to obtain evidence." "Evidence? Evidence for what? Not for a crime, I dare say. The crime has been committed and the body has been disposed of. You just can’t find it. What other crime do we have here? Suicide? Watching a suicide?" "Did he watch the suicide?" "I can’t tell you what he did or saw because he has confided in me as his lawyer. Our talks are privileged, you know that, Roy. What else have you taken from this child?" "Nothing." She snorted as if she didn’t believe this. "What else do you have?" "This is not enough?" "I want it all." Foltrigg flipped pages back and forth and did a slow burn. "You’ve seen the puffy left eye and the knot on his forehead. The police said there was a trace of blood on his lip when they found him at the scene. Clifford’s autopsy revealed a spot of blood on the back of his right hand, and it’s not his type." "Let me guess. It’s Mark’s." "Probably so. Same blood type." "How do you know his blood type?" Foltrigg dropped the legal pad and rubbed his face. The most effective defense lawyers are those who keep the fighting away from the issues. They bitch and throw rocks over the tiny subplots of a case and hope the prosecution and the jury are diverted away from the obvious guilt of their clients. If there’s something to hide, then scream at the other guy for violating technicalities. Right now they should be nailing down the facts of what, if anything, Clifford said to Mark. It should be so simple. But now the kid had a lawyer, and here they were trying to explain how they obtained certain crucial information. There was nothing wrong with lifting prints from a can without asking. Good police work. But from the mouth of a defense lawyer, it’s suddenly a vicious invasion of privacy. Next she ‘would threaten a lawsuit. And now, the blood.
She was good. He found it difficult to believe she’d been practicing only four years.
"From his brother’s hospital admission records." "And how did you obtain the hospital records?", "We have ways." Trumann braced for a reprimand. McThune hid behind the file. They had been burned by this temper. She’d made them stutter and stammer and sweat blood, and now it was time for old Roy to take a few punches. It was almost funny.
But she kept her cool. She slowly extended a skinny finger with white nail polish and pointed it at Roy. "If you get near my client again and attempt to obtain anything from him without my permission, I’ll sue you and the FBI. I’ll file an ethics complaint with the state bar in Louisiana and Tennessee, and I’ll haul your ass into Juvenile Court here and ask the judge to lock you up." The words were spoken in an even voice, no emotion, but so matter-of-factly that everyone in the room, including Roy Foltrigg, knew that she would do exactly as she promised.
He smiled and nodded. "Fine. Sorry if we’ve gotten a bit out of line. But we’re anxious, and we must talk to your client." "Have you told me everything you know about Mark?" Foltrigg and Trumann checked their notes. "Yes, I think so." "What’s that?" she insisted, pointing to the file McThune was lost in. He was reading about her suicide attempt, by pills, and it was alleged in the pleadings, sworn under oath, that she’d been in a coma for four days before pulling out. Evidently, her ex-husband, Dr. Cardoni, a real piece of scum according to the pleadings, was a nasty sort with all the money and lawyers, and as soon as Regina/Reggie here took the pills he ran to court with a pile ot motions to get the kids. Looking at the dates stamped on the papers, it was obvious the good doctor was filing requests and asking for hearings while she was lost in a coma and fighting for her life.
McThune didn’t panic. He looked at her innocently and said, "Just some of our internal stuff." It was not a lie, because he was afraid to lie to her. She had the tape, and had sworn them to truthfulness.
"About my client?" "Oh no." She studied her legal pad. "Let’s meet again tomorrow," she said. It was not a suggestion, but a directive.
"We’re really in a hurry, Reggie," Foltrigg pleaded.
"Well I’m not. And I guess I’m calling the shots, aren’t I?" "I guess you are." "I need time to digest this and talk with my client." This was not what they wanted, but it was painfully clear this was all they would get. Foltrigg dramatically screwed the top onto his pen and slid his notes into his briefcase. Trumann and McThune followed his lead and for a minute the table shook as they shuffled paper and files and restuffed everything.
"What time tomorrow?" Foltrigg asked, slamming his briefcase and pushing away from the table.
"Ten. In this office." "Will Mark Sway be here?" "I don’t know." They stood and filed out of the room.
Chapter 12
W ALLY BOXX CALLED THE OFFICE IN NEW ORLEANS AT least four times every hour. Foltrigg had forty-seven assistant U. S. attorneys fighting all sorts of crime and protecting the interests of the government, and Wally was in charge of relaying orders from the boss in Memphis. In addition to Thomas Fink, three other attorneys were working on the Muldanno case, and Wally felt the need to call them every fifteen minutes with instructions, and the latest on Clifford. By noon, the entire office knew of Mark Sway and his little brother. The place buzzed with gossip and speculation. How much did the kid know? Would he lead them to the body? Initially, these questions were pondered in hushed whispers by the three Muldanno prosecutors, but by midafternoon the secretaries in the coffee room were exchanging wild theories about the suicide note and what was told to the kid before Clifford ate his bullet. All other work virtually stopped as Foltrigg’s office waited for Wally’s next call.