The Client (12 page)

Mark eased into a chair, and as soon as Clint disappeared he opened a yellow phone book and flipped through the pages until he found the attorneys. There was Gill Teal again in his full-page spread. Pages and pages of huge ads, all crying out for injured people.
Photos of busy and important men and women holding thick law books or sitting behind wide desks or listening intently to the telephones stuck in their ears. Then half-page ones, then quarter. Reggie Love was not there. What kind of lawyer was she?

Reggie Love was one of thousands in the Memphis Yellow Pages. She couldn’t be much of a lawyer if the Yellow Pages thought so little of her, and the thought of racing from the office crossed his mind. But then there was Gill Teal, the one for real, the people’s lawyer, the star of the Yellow Pages who also had enough fame to get himself on television, and just look at his office down the hall. No, he quickly decided, he’d take his chances with Reggie Love. Maybe she needed clients. Maybe she had more time to help him. The idea of a woman lawyer suddenly appealed to him because he’d seen one on
L.A. Law
once and she had ripped up some cops pretty good. He closed the book and returned it carefully to the magazine rack beside the chair. The office was cool and pretty. There were no voices.

*     *     *

CLINT CLOSED THE DOOR BEHIND HIM AND EASED ACROSS the Persian rug to her desk. Reggie Love was on the phone, listening more than talking. Clint placed three phone messages before her, and gave the standard hand signal to indicate someone was waiting in the reception area. He sat on the corner of the desk, straightening a paper clip and watching her.

There was no leather in the office. The walls were papered with light floral shades of rose and pink. A spotless desk of glass and chrome covered one corner of the rug. The chairs were sleek and upholstered with a
burgundy fabric. This, without a doubt, was the office of a woman. A very neat woman.

Reggie Love was fifty-two years old, and had been practicing law for less than five years. She was of medium build with very short, very gray hair that fell in bangs almost to the top of her perfectly round, black-framed glasses. The eyes were green, and they glowed at Clint as if something funny had been said. Then she rolled them and shook her head. “Good-bye, Sam,” she finally said, and hung up.

“Got a new client for you,” Clint said with a smile.

“I don’t need new clients, Clint. I need clients who can pay. What’s his name?”

“Mark Sway. He’s just a kid, ten maybe twelve years old. And he says he’s supposed to meet with the FBI at noon. Says he needs a lawyer.”

“He’s alone?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he find us?”

“I have no idea. I’m just the secretary, remember. You’ll have to ask some questions yourself.”

Reggie stood and walked around the desk. “Show him in. And rescue me in fifteen minutes, okay. I’ve got a busy morning.”

*     *     *

“FOLLOW ME, MARK,” CLINT SAID, AND MARK FOLLOWED him through a narrow door and down a hallway. Her office door was covered with stained glass, and a small brass plate again said REGGIE LOVE—LAWYER. Clint opened the door, and motioned for Mark to enter.

The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. It was gray and shorter than his; very short above the
ears and in the back, a bit thicker on top with bangs halfway down. He’d never seen a woman with gray hair worn so short. She wasn’t old and she wasn’t young.

She smiled appropriately as they met at the door. “Mark, I’m Reggie Love.” She offered her hand, he took it reluctantly, and she squeezed hard and shook firm. Shaking hands with women was not something he did often. She was neither tall nor short, thin nor heavy. Her dress was straight and black and she wore black and gold bracelets on both wrists. They rattled.

“Nice to meet you,” he said weakly as they shook. She was already leading him to a corner of the office, where two soft chairs faced a table with picture books on it.

“Have a seat,” she said. “I have only a minute.”

Mark sat on the edge of his seat, and was suddenly terrified. He’d lied to his mother. He’d lied to the police. He’d lied to Dr. Greenway. He was about to lie to the FBI. Romey had been dead less than a day, and he was lying right and left to everyone who asked. Tomorrow he would certainly lie to the next person. Maybe it was time to come clean for a change. Sometimes it was frightening to tell the truth, but he usually felt better afterward. But the thought of unloading all this baggage on a stranger made his blood run cold.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No ma’am.”

She crossed her legs. “Mark Sway, right? Please do not call me ma’am, all right? My name is not Ms. Love or any of that, my name is Reggie. I’m old enough to be your grandmother, but you call me Reggie, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How old are you, Mark? Tell me a little about yourself.”

“I’m eleven. I’m in the fifth grade at Willow Road.”

“Why aren’t you in school this morning?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I see. And you’re here because of this long story?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me this long story?”

“I think so.”

“Clint said you’re supposed to meet with the FBI at noon. Is this true?”

“Yes. They want to ask me some questions at the hospital.”

She picked up a legal pad from the table and wrote something on it. “The hospital?”

“It’s part of the long story. Can I ask you something, Reggie?” It was strange calling this lady by a baseball name. He’d watched a TV movie about the life of Reggie Jackson, and remembered the crowd chanting Reggie! Reggie! in perfect unison. Then there was the Reggie candy bar.

“Sure.” She grinned a lot, and it was obvious she enjoyed this scene with the kid who needed a lawyer. Mark knew the smiles would disappear if he made it through the story. She had pretty eyes, and they sparkled at him.

“If I tell you something, will you ever repeat it?” he asked.

“Of course not. It’s privileged, confidential.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means simply that I can never repeat anything you tell me unless you tell me I can repeat it.”

“Never?”

“Never. It’s like talking to your doctor or minister.
The conversations are secret and held in trust. Do you understand?”

“I think so. Under no circumstances—”

“Never. Under no circumstances can I tell anyone what you tell me.”

“What if I told you something that no one else knows?”

“I can’t repeat it.”

“Something the police really want to know?”

“I can’t repeat it.” She at first was amused by these questions, but his determination made her wonder.

“Something that could get you in a lot of trouble.”

“I can’t repeat it.”

Mark looked at her without blinking for a long minute, and convinced himself she could be trusted. Her face was warm and her eyes were comforting. She was relaxed and easy to talk to.

“Any more questions?” she asked.

“Yeah. Where’d you get the name Reggie?”

“I changed my name several years ago. It was Regina, and I was married to a doctor, and then all sorts of bad things happened so I changed my name to Reggie.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Yes.”

“My parents are divorced.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. My brother and I were really happy when they got a divorce. My father drank a lot and beat us. Beat Mom too. Me and Ricky always hated him.”

“Ricky’s your brother?”

“Yes. He’s the one in the hospital.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“It’s part of the long story.”

“When would you like to tell me this story?”

Mark hesitated a few seconds and thought about a few things. He wasn’t quite ready to tell all. “How much do you charge?”

“I don’t know. What kind of case is it?”

“What kind of cases do you take?”

“Mostly cases involving abused or neglected children. Some abandoned children. Lots of adoptions. A few medical malpractice cases involving infants. But mainly abuse cases. I get some pretty bad cases.”

“Good, because this is a really bad one. One person is dead. One is in the hospital. The police and FBI want to talk to me.”

“Look, Mark, I assume you don’t have a lot of money to hire me, do you?”

“No.”

“Technically, you’re supposed to pay me something as a retainer, and once this is done I’m your lawyer and we’ll go from there. Do you have a dollar?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you give it to me as a retainer.”

Mark pulled a one-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. “This is all I’ve got.”

Reggie didn’t want the kid’s dollar, but she took it because ethics were ethics and because it would probably be his last payment. And he was proud of himself for hiring a lawyer. She would somehow return it to him.

She laid the bill on the table, and said, “Okay, now I’m the lawyer and you’re the client. Let’s hear the story.”

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out
the folded clipping from the newspaper Greenway had given them. He handed it to her. “Have you seen this?” he asked. “It’s in this morning’s paper.” His hand was trembling and the paper shook.

“Are you scared, Mark?”

“Sort of.”

“Try to relax, okay.”

“Okay. I’ll try. Have you seen this?”

“No, I haven’t seen the paper yet.” She took the clipping and read it. Mark watched her eyes closely.

“Okay,” she said when she finished.

“It mentions the body was found by two boys. Well, that’s me and Ricky.”

“Well, I’m sure that must’ve been awful, but it’s no crime to find a dead body.”

“Good. Because there’s much more to the story.”

Her smile had disappeared. The pen was ready. “I want to hear it now.”

Mark breathed deeply and rapidly. The four doughnuts churned away in his stomach. He was scared, but he also knew he would feel much better when it was over. He settled deep in the chair, took a long breath, and looked at the floor.

He started with his career as a smoker, and Ricky catching him, and going to the woods. Then the car, the water hose, the fat man who turned out to be Jerome Clifford. He spoke slowly because he wanted to remember it all, and because he wanted his new lawyer to write it all down.

Clint attempted to interrupt after fifteen minutes, but Reggie frowned at him. He quickly closed the door and disappeared.

*     *     *

THE FIRST ACCOUNT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES WITH FEW INTERRUPTIONS from Reggie. There were gaps and holes, none the fault of Mark, just soft spots that she picked through during the second pass, which took another twenty minutes. They broke for coffee and ice water, all fetched by Clint, and Reggie moved the conversation to her desk, where she spread out her notes and prepared for the third run-through of this remarkable story. She filled one legal pad, and started another. The smiles were long gone. The friendly, patronizing chitchat from the grandmother to her grandchild had been replaced with pointed questions picking for details.

The only details Mark withheld were the ones describing the exact location of the body of Senator Boyd Boyette, or rather Romey’s story about the body. As the secret and confidential conversation unfolded, it became obvious to Reggie that Mark knew where the body was allegedly buried, and she skillfully and fearfully danced around this information. Maybe she would ask, maybe she wouldn’t. But it would be the last thing discussed.

An hour after they started, she took a break and read the newspaper story twice. Then again. It seemed to fit. He knew too many details to be lying. This was not a story a hyperactive mind could fabricate. And the poor kid was scared to death.

Clint interrupted again at eleven-thirty to inform Reggie her next appointment had been waiting for an hour. “Cancel it,” Reggie said without looking from her notes, and Clint was gone. Mark walked around her office as she read. He stood in her window and watched the traffic on Third Street below. Then he returned to his seat and waited.

His lawyer was deeply troubled, and he almost felt
sorry for her. All those names and faces in the Yellow Pages, and he had to drop this bomb on Reggie Love.

“What are you afraid of, Mark?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Lots of things. I’ve lied to the police about this, and I think they know I’m lying. And that scares me. My little brother’s in a coma because of me. It’s all my fault. I lied to his doctor. And all that scares me. I don’t know what to do, and I guess that’s why I’m here. What should I do?”

“Have you told me everything?”

“No, but almost.”

“Have you lied to me?”

“No.”

“Do you know where the body is buried?”

“I think so. I know what Jerome Clifford told me.”

For a split second, Reggie was terrified he would blurt it out. But he didn’t, and they stared at each other for a long time.

“Do you want to tell me where it is?” she finally asked.

“Do you want me to?”

“I’m not sure. What keeps you from telling me?”

“I’m scared. I don’t want anybody to know that I know, because Romey told me his client had killed many people and was planning on killing Romey too. If he’s killed lots of people, and if he thinks I know this secret, he’ll come after me. And if I tell this stuff to the cops then he’ll come after me for sure. He’s in the Mafia, and that really scares me. Wouldn’t it scare you?”

“I think so.”

“And the cops have threatened me if I don’t tell the truth, and they think I’m lying anyway, and I just don’t know what to do. Do you think I should tell the police and the FBI?”

Reggie stood and walked slowly to the window. She had no wonderful advice at this point. If she suggested that her newest client spill his guts to the FBI, and he followed her advice, his life could indeed be in danger. There was no law requiring him to tell. Obstruction of justice, maybe, but he was just a kid. They didn’t know for certain what he knew, and if they couldn’t prove it, he was safe.

“Let’s do this, Mark. Don’t tell me where the body is, okay? For now anyway. Maybe later, but not now. And let’s meet with the FBI and listen to them. You won’t have to say a word. I’ll do the talking, and we’ll both do the listening. And when it’s over, you and I will decide what to do next.”