The Client (19 page)

The debate over whether or not Mark Sway knew anything had ended hours before with Foltrigg clearly victorious. The kid had been in the car. Clifford was crazy and wanted to talk. The kid had lied to the cops. And now the kid had a lawyer because the kid knew something and was afraid to talk. Why didn’t Mark Sway simply come clean and tell all? Why? Because he was afraid of the killer of Boyd Boyette. Plain and simple.

Fink still had doubts, but was tired of arguing. His boss was not bright and was very stubborn, and when he closed his mind it remained closed forever. And
there was a lot of merit to Foltrigg’s arguments. The kid was making strange moves, especially for a kid.

Boxx, of course, stood firm behind his boss and believed everything he said. If Roy said the kid knew where the body was, then it was the gospel. Pursuant to one of his many phone calls, a half dozen assistant U.S. attorneys were doing identical research in New Orleans.

Larry Trumann knocked and entered the library around ten Tuesday night. He’d been in McThune’s office for most of the evening. Following Foltrigg’s orders, they had begun the process of obtaining approval to offer Mark Sway safety under the Federal Witness Protection Program. They had made a dozen phone calls to Washington, twice speaking with the director of the FBI, F. Denton Voyles. If Mark Sway didn’t give Foltrigg the answers he wanted in the morning, they would be ready with a most attractive offer.

Foltrigg said it would be an easy deal. The kid had nothing to lose. They would offer his mother a good job in a new city, one of her choosing. She would earn more than the six lousy bucks an hour she got at the lamp factory. The family would live in a house with a foundation, not a cheap trailer. There would be a cash incentive, maybe a new car.

MARK SAT IN THE DARKNESS ON THE THIN MATTRESS, AND stared at his mother lying above him next to Ricky. He was sick of this room and this hospital. The foldaway bed was ruining his back. Tragically, Karen the beautiful was not at the nurses’ station. The hallways were empty. No one waited for the elevators.

A solitary man occupied the waiting area. He
flipped through a magazine and ignored the
M*A*S*H
reruns on the television. He was on the sofa, which happened to be the spot Mark had planned to sleep. Mark stuck two quarters in the machine, and pulled out a Sprite. He sat in a chair and stared at the TV. The man was about forty, and looked tired and worried. Ten minutes passed, and
M*A*S*H
went away. Suddenly, there was Gill Teal, the people’s lawyer, standing calmly at the scene of a car wreck talking about defending rights and fighting insurance companies. Gill Teal, he’s for real.

Jack Nance closed the magazine and picked up another. He glanced at Mark for the first time, and smiled. “Hi there,” he said warmly, then looked at a
Redbook.

Mark nodded. The last thing he needed in his life was another stranger. He sipped his drink, and prayed for silence.

“What’re you doing here?” the man asked.

“Watching television,” Mark answered, barely audible.

The man stopped smiling and began reading an article. The midnight news came on, and there was a huge story about a typhoon in Pakistan. There were live pictures of dead people and dead animals piled along the shore like driftwood. It was the kind of footage one had to watch.

“That’s awful, isn’t it,” Jack Nance said to the TV as a helicopter hovered over a pile of human debris.

“It’s gross,” Mark said, careful not to get friendly. Who knows—this guy could be just another hungry lawyer waiting to pounce on wounded prey.

“Really gross,” the man said, shaking his head at the suffering. “I guess we have much to be thankful for.
But it’s hard to be thankful in a hospital, know what I mean?” He was suddenly sad again. He looked painfully at Mark.

“What’s the matter?” Mark couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s my son. He’s in real bad shape.” The man threw the magazine on the table and rubbed his eyes.

“What happened?” Mark asked. He felt sorry for this guy.

“Car wreck. Drunk driver. My boy was thrown out of the car.”

“Where is he?”

“ICU, first floor. I had to leave and get away. It’s a zoo down there, people screaming and crying all the time.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“He’s only eight years old.” He appeared to be crying, but Mark couldn’t tell.

“My little brother’s eight. He’s in a room around the corner.”

“What’s wrong with him?” the man asked without looking.

“He’s in shock.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story. And getting longer. He’ll make it, though. I sure hope your kid pulls through.”

Jack Nance looked at his watch and suddenly stood. “Me too. I need to go check on him. Good luck to you, uh, what’s your name?”

“Mark Sway.”

“Good luck, Mark. I gotta run.” He walked to the elevators and disappeared.

Mark took his place on the couch, and within minutes was asleep.

     14     

THE PHOTOS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF WEDNESDAY’S EDITION of the
Memphis Press
had been lifted from the yearbook at Willow Road Elementary School. They were a year old—Mark was in the fourth grade and Ricky the first. They were next to each other on the bottom third of the page, and under the cute, smiling faces were the names. Mark Sway. Ricky Sway. To the left was a story about Jerome Clifford’s suicide and the bizarre aftermath in which the boys were involved. It was written by Slick Moeller, and he had pieced together a suspicious little story. The FBI was involved; Ricky was in shock; Mark had called 911 but hadn’t given his name; the police had tried to interrogate Mark but he hadn’t talked yet; the family had hired a lawyer, one Reggie Love (female); Mark’s fingerprints were all over the inside of the car, including the gun. The story made Mark look like a cold-blooded killer.

Karen brought it to him around six as he sat in an empty semiprivate room directly across the hall from Ricky’s. Mark was watching cartoons and trying to nap. Greenway wanted everyone out of the room except
Ricky and Dianne. An hour earlier, Ricky had opened his eyes and asked to use the bathroom. He was back in the bed now, mumbling about nightmares and eating ice cream.

“You’ve hit the big time,” Karen said as she handed him the front section and put his orange juice on the table.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly staring at his face in black and white. “Damn!”

“Just a little story. I’d like your autograph when you have time.”

Very funny. She left the room and he read it slowly. Reggie had told him about the fingerprints and the note. He’d dreamed about the gun, but through a legitimate lapse in memory had forgotten about touching the whiskey bottle.

There was something unfair here. He was just a kid who’d been minding his own business, and now suddenly his picture was on the front page and fingers were pointed at him. How can a newspaper dig up old yearbook photos and run them whenever it chooses? Wasn’t he entitled to a little privacy?

He threw the paper to the floor and walked to the window. It was dawn, drizzling outside, and downtown Memphis was slowly coming to life. Standing in the window of the empty room, looking at the blocks of tall buildings, he felt completely alone. Within an hour, a half million people would be awake, reading about Mark and Ricky Sway while sipping their coffee and eating their toast. The dark buildings would soon be filled with busy people gathering around desks and coffeepots, and they would gossip and speculate wildly about him and what happened with the dead lawyer. Surely the kid was in the car. There are fingerprints
everywhere! How did the kid get in the car? How did he get out? They would read Slick Moeller’s story as if every word were true, as if Slick had the inside dope.

It was not fair for a kid to read about himself on the front page and not have parents to hide behind. Any kid in this mess needed the protection of a father and the sole affection of a mother. He needed a shield against cops and FBI agents and reporters, and, God forbid, the mob. Here he was, eleven years old, alone, lying, then telling the truth, then lying some more, never certain what to do next. The truth can get you killed—he’d seen that in a movie one time, and always remembered it when he felt the urge to lie to someone in authority. How could he get out of this mess?

He retrieved the paper from the floor and entered the hall. Greenway had stuck a note on Ricky’s door forbidding anyone from entering, including nurses. Dianne was having back pains from sitting in his bed and rocking, and Greenway had ordered another round of pills for her discomfort.

Mark stopped at the nurses’ station, and handed the paper to Karen. “Nice story, huh,” she said with a smile. The romance was gone. She was still beautiful but now playing hard to get, and he just didn’t have the energy.

“I’m going to get a doughnut,” he said. “You want one?”

“No thanks.”

He walked to the elevators and pushed the call button. The middle door opened and he stepped in.

At that precise second, Jack Nance turned in the darkness of the waiting room and whispered into his radio.

The elevator was empty. It was just a few minutes
past six, a good half an hour before the rush hit. The elevator stopped at floor number eight. The door opened, and one man stepped in. He wore a white lab jacket, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Mark did not look at his face. He was tired of meeting new people.

The door closed, and suddenly the man grabbed Mark and pinned him in a corner. He clenched his fingers around Mark’s throat. The man fell to one knee and pulled something from a pocket. His face was inches from Mark’s, and it was a horrible face. He was breathing heavy. “Listen to me, Mark Sway,” he growled. Something clicked in his right hand, and suddenly a shiny switchblade entered the picture. A very long switchblade. “I don’t know what Jerome Clifford told you,” he said urgently. The elevator was moving. “But if you repeat a single word of it to anyone, including your lawyer, I’ll kill you. And I’ll kill your mother and your little brother. Okay? He’s in Room 943. I’ve seen the trailer where you live. Okay? I’ve seen your school at Willow Road.” His breath was warm and had the smell of creamed coffee, and he aimed it directly at Mark’s eyes. “Do you understand me?” he sneered with a nasty smile.

The elevator stopped, and the man was on his feet by the door with the switchblade hidden by his leg. Although Mark was paralyzed, he was able to hope and pray that someone would get on the damned elevator with him. It was obvious he was not getting off at this point. They waited ten seconds at the sixth floor, and nobody entered. The doors closed, and they were moving again.

The man lunged at him again, this time with the switchblade an inch or two from Mark’s nose. He pinned him in the corner with a heavy forearm, and
suddenly jabbed the shiny blade at Mark’s waist. Quickly and efficiently, he cut a belt loop. Then a second one. He’d already delivered his message, without interruption, and now it was time for a little reinforcement.

“I’ll slice your guts out, do you understand me?” he demanded, and then released Mark.

Mark nodded. A lump the size of a golf ball clogged his dry throat, and suddenly his eyes were wet. He nodded yes, yes, yes.

“I’ll kill you. Do you believe me?”

Mark stared at the knife, and nodded some more. “And if you tell anyone about me, I’ll get you. Understand?” Mark kept nodding, only faster now.

The man slid the knife into a pocket and pulled a folded eight by ten color photograph from under the lab jacket. He stuck it in Mark’s face. “You seen this before?” he asked, smiling now.

It was a department store portrait taken when Mark was in the second grade, and for years now it had hung in the den above the television. Mark stared at it.

“Recognize it?” the man barked at him.

Mark nodded. There was only one such photograph in the world.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and the man moved quickly, again by the door. At the last second, two nurses stepped in, and Mark finally breathed. He stayed in the corner, holding the railings, praying for a miracle. The switchblade had come closer with each assault, and he simply could not take another one. On the third floor, three more people entered and stood between Mark and the man with the knife. In an instant, Mark’s assailant was gone; through the door as it was closing.

“Are you okay?” A nurse was staring at him, frowning and very concerned. The elevator kicked and started down. She touched his forehead and felt a layer of sweat between her fingers. His eyes were wet. “You look pale,” she said.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled weakly, holding the railings for support.

Another nurse looked down at him in the corner. They studied his face with much concern. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, and the elevator door suddenly opened on the second floor. He darted through bodies and was in a narrow corridor dodging gurneys and wheelchairs. His well-worn Nike hightops squeaked on the clean linoleum as he ran to a door with an EXIT sign over it. He pushed through the door, and was in the stairwell. He grabbed the rails and started up, two steps at a time, churning and churning. The pain hit his thighs at the sixth floor, but he ran harder. He passed a doctor on the eighth floor, but never slowed. He ran, climbing the mountain at a record pace until the stairwell stopped on the fifteenth floor. He collapsed on a landing under a fire hose, and sat in the semidarkness until the sun filtered through a tiny painted window above him.

PURSUANT TO HIS AGREEMENT WITH REGGIE, CLINT OPENED the office at exactly eight, and after turning on the lights, made the coffee. It was Wednesday, southern pecan day. He looked through the countless one-pound bags of coffee beans in the refrigerator until he found southern pecan, and measured four perfect scoops into the grinder. She would know in an instant
if he’d missed the measurement by half a teaspoon. She would take the first sip like a wine connoisseur, smack her lips like a rabbit, then pass judgment on the coffee. He added the precise quantity of water, flipped the switch, and waited for the first black drops to hit the canister. The aroma was delicious.