The Client (Page 67)
"Yeah, I’ll catch a flight out in a couple of hours, and fly back here in the morning." Fink’s voice was now very tired.
"I’ll be waiting for you here tonight, Tom. Good work." "Yeah." Fink faded away and Roy hit the switch.
"Get the grand jury ready," he snapped at Wally, who bounced off the desk and headed for the door. "Tell Hoover to take a break. This won’t take but a minute. Get me the Mark Sway file. Inform the clerk that the subpoenas will be sealed until they are served late tomorrow." Wally was through the door and gone. Foltrigg returned to the window, mumbling to himself, "I knew it. I just knew it."
THE COP IN THE SUIT SIGNED DOREEN’s CLIPBOARD, AND left with his partner. "Follow me," she said to Mark as if he’d sinned again and her patience was wearing thin. He followed her, watching her wide rear end rock from side to side in a pair of tight black pants. A thick, shiny belt squeezed her narrow waist and held an assortment of key rings, two black boxes which he assumed to be pagers, and a pair of handcuffs. No gun. Her shirt was official white with markings up and down the sleeves and gold trim around the collar.
The hall was empty as she opened his door and motioned for him to return to his little room. She followed him in and eased around the walls like a dope dog sniffing at the airport. "Sort of surprised to see you back here," she said, inspecting the toilet.
He could think of nothing to say to this, and he was not in the mood for a conversation. As he watched her stoop and bend, he thought about her husband serving thirty years for bank robbery, and if she insisted on chatting he might just bring this up. That would quiet her down and send her on her way.
"Must’ve upset Judge Roosevelt," she said, looking through the windows.
"I guess so." "How long are you in for?" "He didn’t say. 1 have to go back tomorrow." She walked to the bunks and began patting the blanket. "I’ve been reading about you and your little brother. Pretty strange case. How’s he doing?" Mark stood by the door, hoping she would just go away. "He’s probably gonna die," he said sadly.
"No!" "Yeah, it’s awful. He’s in a coma, you know, sucking his thumb, grunting and slobbering every now and then. His eyes have rolled back into his head. Won’t eat." "I’m sorry I asked." Her heavily decorated eyes were wide open, and she had stopped touching everything.
Yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry you asked, Mark thought. "I need to be there with him," Mark said. "My mom’s there, but she’s all stressed out. Taking a lot of pills, you know." "I’m so sorry." "It’s awful. I’ve been feeling dizzy myself. Who knows, I could end up like my brother." "Can I get you anything?" • "No. I just need to lie down." He walked to the bottom bunk and fell into it. Doreen knelt beside him, deeply troubled now.
"Anything you want, honey, you just let me know, okay?" "Okay. Some pizza would be nice." She stood and thought about this for a second. He closed his eyes as if in deep pain.
"I’ll see what I can do." "I haven’t had lunch, you know." "I’ll be right back," she said, and she left. The door clicked loudly behind her. Mark bolted to his feet and listened to it.
Chapter 27
1 HE ROOM WAS DARK AS USUAL; THE LIGHTS OFF, THE door shut, the blinds drawn, the only illumination the moving blue shadows of the muted television high on tb. 6 wall. Dianne was mentally drained and physically beat from lying in bed with Ricky for eight hours, patting and hugging and cooing and trying to be strong in this damp, dark little cell.
Reggie had stopped by two hours earlier, and they’d sat on the edge of the foldaway bed and talked for thirty minutes. She explained the hearing, assured her Mark was being fed and in no physical danger, described his room at the detention center because she’d seen one before, told her he was safer there than here, and talked about Judge Roosevelt and the FBI and their witness protection program. At first, and under the circumstances, the idea was attractive-they would simply move to a new city with new names and a new job and a decent place to live. They could run from this mess and start over. They could pick a large city with big schools and the boys would get lost in the crowd. But the more she lay there curled on one side and stared above Ricky’s little head at the wall, the less she liked the idea. In fact, it was a horrible idea-living on the run forever, always afraid of an unexpected knock on the door, always in a panic when one of the boys was late getting home, always lying about their past.
This little plan was forever. What if, she began asking herself, one day, say five or ten years from now, long after the trial in New Orleans, some person she’s never met lets something slip and it’s heard by the wrong ears, and their trails are quickly traced? And when Mark is, say, a senior in high school, somebody waits fbr him after a ballgame and sticks a gun to his head? His name wouldn’t be Mark, but he would be dead nonetheless.
She had almost decided to veto the idea of witness protection when Mark called her from the jail. He said he’d just finished a large pizza, was feeling great, nice place and all, was enjoying it more than the hospital, food was better, and he chatted so eagerly she knew he was lying. He said he was already plotting his escape, and would soon be out. They talked about Ricky, and the trailer, and the hearing today and the hearing tomorrow. He said he was trusting Reggie’s advice, and Dianne agreed this was best. He apologized for not being there to help with Ricky, and she fought tears when he tried to sound so mature. He apologized again for all this mess.
Their conversation had been brief. She found it difficult to talk to him. She had little motherly advice, and felt like a failure because her eleven-year-old son was in jail and she couldn’t get him out. She couldn’t go see him. She couldn’t go talk to the judge. She couldn’t tell him to talk or to remain quiet because she was scared too. She couldn’t do a damned thing but stay here in this narrow bed and stare at the walls and pray that she would wake up and the nightmare would be over.
It was 6 P. M., time for the local news. She watched the silent face of the anchorperson and hoped it wouldn’t happen. But it didn’t take long. After two dead bodies were carried from a landfill, a black-and-white still photo of Mark and the cop she’d slapped that morning was suddenly on the screen. She turned up the volume.
The anchorperson gave the basics about the taking of Mark Sway, careful not to call it an arrest, then went to a reporter standing in front of the Juvenile Court building. He rattled on a few seconds about a hearing he knew nothing about, gushed breathlessly that the child, Mark Sway, had been taken back to the Juvenile Detention Center, and that another hearing would be held tomorrow in Judge Roosevelt’s courtroom. Back in the studio, the anchorperson brought ’em up-to-date on young Mark and the tragic suicide of Jerome Clifford. They ran a quick clip of the mourners leaving the chapel that morning in New Orleans, and had a second or two of Roy Foltrigg talking to a reporter under an umbrella. Back quickly to the anchorperson, who began quoting Slick Moeller’s stories, and the suspicion mounted. No comments from the Memphis police, the FBI, the U. S. attorney’s office, or the Shelby County Juvenile Court. The ice got thinner as she skated into the vast, murky world of unnamed sources, all of whom were short on facts but long on speculation. When she mercifully finished and broke for a commercial, ~ the uninformed could easily believe that young Mark Sway had shot not only Jerome Clifford but Boyd Boyette as well.
Dianne’s stomach ached, and she hit the power button. The room was even darker. She had not taken a single bite of food in ten hours. Ricky twitched and grunted, and this irritated her. She eased from the bed, frustrated with him, frustrated with Greenway for the lack of progress, sick of this hospital with its dungeon-like decor and lighting, horrified at a system that allowed children to be jailed for being children, and, above all, scared of these lurking shadows who’d threatened Mark and burned the trailer and obviously were quite willing to do more. She closed the bathroom door behind her, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and smoked a Virginia Slim. Her hands trembled and her thoughts were a blur. A migraine was forming at the base of her skull, and by midnight she would be paralyzed. Maybe the pills would help.