The Client (27 page)

He left the noisy café and walked hurriedly through the crowds on Canal Street. September was just another hot, sticky summer month in New Orleans. After two blocks he removed his jacket and walked faster. Two more blocks, and his shirt was wet and clinging to his back and chest.

He darted through the crowds of tourists lumbering along Canal with their cameras and gaudy T-shirts, and wondered for the thousandth time why these people came to this city to spend hard-earned money on cheap entertainment and overpriced food. The average tourist on Canal Street wore black socks and white sneakers, was forty pounds overweight, and Trumann figured these people would return home and brag to their less fortunate friends about the delightful cuisine they had uniquely discovered and gorged themselves on in New Orleans. He bumped into a hefty woman with a small black box stuck in her face. She was actually standing near the curb and filming the front of a cheap souvenir store with suggestive street signs displayed for sale in the window. What sort of person would watch a video of a tacky souvenir shop in the French Quarter? Americans no longer experience vacations. They simply Sony them so they can ignore them for the rest of the year.

Trumann was in for a transfer. He was sick of tourists, traffic, humidity, crime, and he was sick of Roy Foltrigg. He turned by Rubinstein Brothers and headed for Poydras.

FOLTRIGG WAS NOT AFRAID OF HARD WORK. IT CAME NATURAL to him. He’d realized in law school that he was not a genius, and that to succeed he’d need to put in more
hours. He studied his ass off, and finished somewhere in the middle of the pack. But he’d been elected president of the student body, and there was a certificate declaring this achievement framed in oak somewhere on one of his walls. His career as a political animal started at the moment when his law school classmates chose him as their president, a position most did not know existed and couldn’t have cared less about. Job offers had been scarce for young Roy, and at the last minute he jumped at the chance to be an assistant city prosecutor in New Orleans. Fifteen thousand bucks a year in 1975. In two years he handled more cases than all the other city prosecutors combined. He worked. He put in long hours in a dead-end job because he was going places. He was a star but no one noticed.

He began dabbling in local Republican politics, a lonely hobby, and learned to play the game. He met people with money and clout, and landed a job with a law firm. He put in incredible hours and became a partner. He married a woman he didn’t love because she had the right credentials and a wife brought respectability. Roy was on the move. There was a game plan.

He was still married to her but they slept in different rooms. The kids were now twelve and ten. A pretty family portrait.

He preferred the office to his home, which suited his wife just fine because she didn’t like him but did enjoy his salary.

Roy’s conference table was once again covered with law books and legal pads. Wally had shed his tie and jacket. Empty coffee cups littered the room. They were both tired.

The law was quite simple: Every citizen owes to
society the duty of giving testimony to aid in the enforcement of the law. And, a witness is not excused from testifying because of his fear of reprisal threatening his and/or his family’s lives. It was black letter law, as they say, carved in stone over the years by hundreds of judges and justices. No exceptions. No exemptions. No loopholes for scared little boys. Roy and Wally had read dozens of cases. Many were copied and highlighted and thrown about on the table. The kid would have to talk. If the Juvenile Court approach in Memphis fell through, Foltrigg planned to issue a subpoena for Mark Sway to appear before the grand jury in New Orleans. It would scare the little punk to death, and loosen his tongue.

Trumann walked through the door and said, “You guys are working late.”

Wally Boxx pushed away from the table and stretched his arms mightily above his head. “Yeah, a lot of stuff to cover,” he said, exhausted, waving his hand proudly at the piles of books and notes.

“Have a seat,” Foltrigg said, pointing at a chair. “We’re finishing up.” He stretched too, then cracked his knuckles. He loved his reputation as a workaholic, a man of importance unafraid of painful hours, a family man whose calling went beyond wife and kids. The job meant everything. His client was the United States of America.

Trumann had heard this eighteen-hour-a-day crap for seven years now. It was Foltrigg’s favorite subject—talking about himself and the hours at the office and the body that needed no sleep. Lawyers wear their loss of sleep like a badge of honor. Real macho machines grinding it out around the clock.

“I’ve got an idea,” Trumann said, sitting across the
table. “You told me earlier about the hearing in Memphis tomorrow. In Juvenile Court.”

“We’re filing a petition,” Roy corrected him. “I don’t know when the hearing will take place. But we’ll ask for a quick one.”

“Yeah, well, what about this? Just before I left the office this afternoon, I talked to K. O. Lewis, Voyles’s number-one deputy.”

“I know K.O.,” Foltrigg interrupted. Trumann knew this was coming. In fact, he paused just a split second so Foltrigg could interrupt and set him straight about how close he was to K.O., not Mr. Lewis, but simply K.O.

“Right. Well, he’s in St. Louis attending a conference, and he asked about the Boyette case and Jerome Clifford and the kid. I told him what we knew. He said feel free to call if he could do anything. Said Mr. Voyles wants daily reports.”

“I know all this.”

“Right. Well, I was just thinking. St. Louis is an hour’s flight from Memphis, right. What if Mr. Lewis presented himself to the Juvenile Court judge in Memphis first thing in the morning when the petition is filed, and what if Mr. Lewis has a little chat with the judge and leans on him? We’re talking about the number-two man in the FBI. He tells the judge what we think this kid knows.”

Foltrigg began nodding his approval, and when Wally saw this he began nodding too, only faster.

Trumann continued. “And there’s something else. We know Gronke is in Memphis, and it’s safe to assume he’s not there to visit Elvis’s grave. Right? He’s been sent there by Muldanno. So I was thinking, what if we assume the kid is in danger, and Mr. Lewis explains to
the Juvenile Court judge that it’s in the best interests of the kid for us to take him into custody? You know, for his own protection?”

“I like this,” Foltrigg said softly. Wally liked it too.

“The kid’ll crack under the pressure. First, he’s taken into custody by order of the Juvenile Court, same as any other case, and that’ll scare the hell out of him. Might also wake up his lawyer. Hopefully the judge orders the kid to talk. At that point, the kid’ll crack, I believe. If not, he’s in contempt, maybe. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, he’s in contempt, but we can’t predict what the judge will do at that point.”

“Right. So Mr. Lewis tells the judge about Gronke and his connections with the mob, and that we believe he’s in Memphis to harm the kid. Either way, we get the kid in custody, away from his lawyer. The bitch.”

Foltrigg was wired now. He scribbled something on a legal pad. Wally stood and began pacing thoughtfully around the library, deep in thought as if things were conspiring to force him to make a significant decision.

Trumann could call her a bitch here in the privacy of an office in New Orleans. But he remembered the tape. And he would be happy to remain in New Orleans, far away from her. Let McThune deal with Reggie in Memphis.

“Can you get K.O. on the phone?” Foltrigg asked.

“I think so.” Trumann pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket and began punching numbers on the phone.

Foltrigg met Wally in the corner, away from the
agent. “It’s a great idea,” Wally said. “I’m sure this Juvenile Court judge is just some local yokel who’ll listen to K.O. and do whatever he wants, don’t you think?”

Trumann had Mr. Lewis on the phone. Foltrigg watched him while listening to Wally. “Maybe, but regardless, we get the kid in court quickly and I think he’ll fold. If not, he’s in custody, under our control and away from his lawyer. I like it.”

They whispered for a while as Trumann talked to K. O. Lewis. Trumann nodded at them, gave the okay sign with a big smile, and hung up. “He’ll do it,” he said proudly. “He’ll catch an early morning flight to Memphis and meet with Fink. Then they’ll get with George Ord and descend on the judge.” Trumann was walking toward them, very proud of himself. “Think about it. The U.S. attorney on one side, K. O. Lewis on the other, and Fink in the middle, first thing in the morning when the judge gets to the office. They’ll have the kid talking in no time.”

Foltrigg flashed a wicked smile. He loved those moments when the power of the federal government shifted into high gear and landed hard on small, unsuspecting people. Just like that, with one phone call, the second in command of the FBI had entered the picture. “It just might work,” he said to his boys. “It just might work.”

IN ONE CORNER OF THE SMALL DEN ABOVE THE GARAGE, Reggie flipped through a thick book under a lamp. It was midnight, but she couldn’t sleep, so she curled under a quilt and sipped tea while reading a book Clint had found titled
Reluctant Witnesses.
As far as law books
go, it was quite thin. But the law was quite clear: Every witness has a duty to come forth and assist those authorities investigating a crime. A witness cannot refuse to testify on the grounds that he or she feels threatened. The vast majority of the cases cited in the book dealt with organized crime. Seems the Mafia has historically frowned on its people schmoozing with the cops, and has often threatened wives and children. The Supreme Court has said more than once that wives and children be damned. A witness must talk.

At some point in the very near future, Mark would be forced to talk. Foltrigg could issue a subpoena and compel his attendance before a grand jury in New Orleans. She, of course, would be able to attend. If Mark refused to testify before the grand jury, a quick hearing would be held before the trial judge, who would undoubtedly order him to answer Foltrigg’s questions. If he refused, the wrath of the court would be severe. No judge tolerates being disobeyed, but federal judges can be especially nasty when their orders fall on deaf ears.

There are places to put eleven-year-old kids who find themselves in disfavor with the system. At the moment, she had no less than twenty clients scattered about in various training schools in Tennessee. The oldest was sixteen. All were secured behind fences with guards pacing about. They were called reform schools not long ago. Now they’re training schools.

When ordered to talk, Mark would undoubtedly look to her. And this was why she couldn’t sleep. To advise him to disclose the location of the senator’s body would be to jeopardize his safety. His mother and brother would be at risk. These were not people who
could become instantly mobile. Ricky might be hospitalized for weeks. Any type of witness protection program would be postponed until he was healthy again. Dianne would be a sitting duck if Muldanno were so inclined.

It would be proper and ethical and moral to advise him to cooperate, and that would be the easy way out. But what if he got hurt? He would point a finger at her. What if something happened to Ricky or Dianne? She, the lawyer, would be blamed.

Children make lousy clients. The lawyer becomes much more than a lawyer. With adults, you simply lay the pros and cons of each option on the table. You advise this way and that. You predict a little, but not much. Then you tell the adult it’s time for a decision and you leave the room for a bit. When you return, you are handed a decision and you run with it. Not so with kids. They don’t understand lawyerly advice. They want a hug and someone to make decisions. They’re scared and looking for friends.

She’d held many small hands in courtrooms. She’d wiped many tears.

She imagined this scene: A huge, empty federal courtroom in New Orleans with the doors locked and two marshals guarding it; Mark on the witness stand; Foltrigg in all his glory strutting around on his home turf, prancing back and forth for the benefit of his little assistants and perhaps an FBI agent or two; the judge in a black robe. He was handling it delicately, and he probably disliked Foltrigg immensely because he was forced to see him all the time. He, the judge, asks Mark if he in fact refused to answer certain questions before the grand jury that very morning in a room just a short
distance down the hall. Mark, looking upward at his honor, answers yes. What was the first question? the judge asks Foltrigg, who’s on his feet with a legal pad, strutting and prancing as if the room were filled with cameras. I asked him, Your Honor, if Jerome Clifford, prior to the suicide, said anything about the body of Senator Boyd Boyette. And he refused to answer, Your Honor. Then I asked him if Jerome Clifford in fact told him where the body is buried. And he refused to answer this question as well, Your Honor. And the judge leans down even closer to Mark. There is no smile. Mark stares at his lawyer. Why didn’t you answer these questions? the judge asks. Because I don’t want to, Mark answers, and it’s almost funny. But there are no smiles. Well, the judge says, I am ordering you to answer these questions before the grand jury, do you understand me, Mark? I’m ordering you to return to the grand jury room right now and answer all of Mr. Foltrigg’s questions, do you understand this? Mark says nothing and doesn’t move a muscle. He stares at his trusted lawyer, thirty feet away. What if I don’t answer the questions? he finally asks, and this irritates the judge. You have no choice, young man. You must answer because I’m ordering it. And if I don’t? Mark asks, terrified. Well, then I’ll find you in contempt and I’ll probably incarcerate you until you do as I say. For a very long time, the judge growls.

Axle rubbed against the chair and startled her. The courtroom scene was gone. She closed the book and walked to the window. The best advice to Mark would be simply to lie. Tell a big one. At the critical moment, just explain how the late Jerome Clifford said nothing about Boyd Boyette. He was crazy and drunk
and stoned, and said nothing, really. Who in the world could ever know the difference?