The Client (Page 41)
Slowly, he nodded his head yes. "Yes sir." "Why don’t you tell me what you remember about you and Mark in the woods smoking a cigarette." He pulled the blanket tighter around him and knotted it with his hands at his stomach. "I’m really cold," he muttered, his teeth chattering.
"Ricky, the temperature is almost seventy-eight degrees in here. And you’ve got the blanket and flannel pajamas. Try and think about being warm, okay?" He tried but it didn’t help. Mark gently placed his arm around Ricky’s shoulder, and this seemed to help.
"Do you remember smoking a cigarette?" "I think so. Uh-huh." Mark glanced up at Greenway, then at Ricky.
"Okay. Do you remember seeing the big black car when it pulled up in the grass?" Ricky suddenly stopped shaking and stared at the floor. He mumbled the word "Yes," and that would be his last word for twenty-four hours.
"And what did the big black car do when you first saw it?" The mention of the cigarette had scared him, but the image of the black car and the fear it brought were simply too much. He bent over at the waist and placed his head on Mark’s knee. His eyes were shut tightly, and he began sobbing, but with no tears.
Mark rubbed his hair, and repeated, "It’s okay, Ricky. It’s okay. We need to talk about it." Greenway was unmoved. He crossed his bony legs and scratched his beard. He had expected this, and had warned Mark and Dianne that this first little session would not be productive. But it was very important.
"Ricky, listen to me," he said in a childlike voice. "Ricky, it’s okay. I just want to talk to you. Okay, Ricky." But Ricky had had enough therapy tor one aay. He began to curl under the blanket, and Mark knew the thumb could not be far behind. Greenway nodded at him as if all was well. He stood, carefully lifted Ricky, and placed him in the bed.
Chapter 17
W ALLY BOXX STOPPED THE VAN IN HEAVY TRAFFIC ON Camp Street, and ignored the horns and fingers as his boss and Fink and the FBI agents made a quick exit onto the sidewalk in front of the Federal Building. Fol-trigg walked importantly up the steps with his entourage behind. In the lobby, a couple of bored reporters recognized him and began asking questions, but he was all business and had nothing but smiles and no comments.
He entered the offices of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana, and the secretaries sprang to life. His assigned space in the building was a vast suite of small offices connected by hallways, and large open areas where the clerical staff performed, and smaller rooms where cubicles allowed some privacy for law clerks and paralegals. In all, forty-seven assistant U. S. attorneys labored here under the commands of Reverend Roy. Another thirty-eight underlings plowed through the drudgery and paperwork and boring research and tedious attention to mindless details, all in an effort to protect the legal interests of Roy’s client, the United States of America.
The largest office of course belonged to Foltrigg, and it was richly decorated with heavy wood and deep leather. Whereas most lawyers allow themselves only one ego wall with pictures and plaques and awards and certificates for Rotary Club memberships, Roy had covered no less than three of his with framed photographs and yellow fill-in-the-blank attendance diplomas from a hundred judicial conferences. He threw his jacket on the burgundy leather sofa, and headed directly for the main library, where a meeting awaited him.
He had called six times during the five-hour trip from Memphis. There had been three faxes. Six assistants were waiting around a thirty-foot oak conference table covered with open law books and countless legal pads. All jackets were off and all sleeves rolled up.
He said hello to the group and took a chair at the center of the table. They each had a copy of a summarization of the FBI’s findings in Memphis. The note, the fingerprints, the gun, everything. There was nothing new Foltrigg or Fink could tell them except that Gronke was in Memphis, and this was irrelevant to this group.
"What do you have, Bobby?" Foltrigg asked dramatically, as if the future of the American legal system rested upon Bobby and whatever he had uncovered in his research. Bobby was the dean of the assistants, a thirty-two-year veteran who hated courtrooms but loved libraries. In times of crisis when answers were needed for complex questions, they all turned to Bobby.
He rubbed his thick gray hair and adjusted his when he would be through with the likes of Roy Fol-trigg. He’d seen a dozen of them come and go, most never heard from again. "Well, I think we’ve narrowed it down," he said, and most of them smiled. He began every report with the same line. To Bobby, legal research was a game of clearing away the piles of debris heaped upon even the simplest of issues, and narrowing the focus to that which is quickly grasped by judges and juries. Everything got narrowed down when Bobby handled the research.
"There are two avenues, neither very attractive but one or both might work. First, I suggest the Juvenile Court approach in Memphis. Under the Tennessee Youth Code, a petition can be filed with the Juvenile Court alleging certain misconduct by the child. There are various categories of-wrongdoing, and the petition must classify the child as either a delinquent or a child in need of supervision. A hearing is held, the Juvenile Court judge hears the proof and makes a determination as to what happens to the child. The same can be done for abused or neglected children. Same procedure, same court." "Who can file the petition?" Foltrigg asked.
"Well, the statute is very broad, and I think it’s a terrible flaw in the law. But it plainly sayS that a petition can be filed by, and I quote, ‘any interested party. ‘ End of quote." "Can that be us?" "Maybe. It depends on what we allege in our petition. And here’s the sticky part-we must allege the kid has done, or is doing, something wrong, violating the law in some way. And the only violation even remotely touching this kid’s behavior is, of course, obstruction of justice. So we must allege things we’re not sure of, such as the kid’s knowledge of where the body is. This could be tricky, since we’re not certain." "The kid knows where the body is," Foltrigg said flatly. Fink studied some notes and pretended not to hear, but the other six repeated the words to themselves. Did Foltrigg know things he hadn’t yet told them? There was a pause as this apparent statement of fact settled in around the table.
"Have you told us everything?" Bobby asked, glancing at his cohorts.
"Yes," Foltrigg replied. "But I’m telling you the kid knows. It’s my gut feeling." Typical Foltrigg. Creating facts with his guts, and expecting those under him to follow on faith.
Bobby continued. "A Juvenile Court summons is served on the child’s mother, and a hearing is held within seven days. The child must have a lawyer, and I understand one has already been obtained. The child has a right to be at the hearing and may testify if he so chooses." Bobby wrote something on his legal pad. "Frankly, this is the quickest way to get the kid to talk." "What if he refuses to talk on the witness stand?" "Very good question," Bobby said like a professor pandering a first-year law student. "It is completely discretionary with the judge. If we put on a good case and convince the judge the kid knows something, he has the authority to order the kid to talk. If the kid refuses, he may be in contempt of court." "Let’s say he’s in contempt. What happens then?" "Difficult to say at this point. He’s only eleven years old, but the judge could, as a last resort, incarcer – j J r O himself of contempt." "In other words, until he talks." It was so easy to spoon-feed Foltrigg. "That is correct. Mind you, this would be the most drastic course the judge could take. We have yet to find any precedent for the incarceration of an eleven-year-old child for contempt of court. We haven’t checked all fifty states, but we’ve covered most of them." "It won’t go that far," Foltrigg predicted calmly. "If we file a petition as an interested party, serve the kid’s mother with papers, drag his little butt into court with his lawyer in tow, then I think he’ll be so scared he’ll tell what he knows. What about you, Thomas?" "Yeah, I think it’ll work. And what if it doesn’t? What’s the downside?" "There’s little risk," Bobby explained. "All Juvenile Court proceedings are closed. We can even ask that the petition be kept under lock and key. If it’s dismissed initially for lack of standing or whatever, no one will know it. If we proceed to the hearing and A, the kid talks but doesn’t know anything, or B, the judge refuses to make him talk, then we haven’t lost anything. And C, if the kid talks out of fear or under threat of contempt, then we’ve gotten what we wanted. Assuming the kid knows about Boyette." "He knows," Foltrigg said.