The Client (48 page)

We walk. Too much television. “And if we find the body?”

“Good question. Think about this slowly, Reggie. Try and think like a kid. If we find the body, and then you call the FBI and tell them you know exactly where it is because you’ve seen it with your own eyes, then they’ll give us anything we want.”

“And what exactly do you want?”

“Probably Australia. A nice house, plenty of money for my mother. New car. Maybe some plastic surgery. I saw that once in a movie. They rearranged this guy’s entire face. He was dog ugly to start with, and he snitched on some drug dealers just so he could get a new face. Looked like a movie star when it was
over. About two years later, the drug dealers gave him another new face.”

“You’re serious?”

“About the movie?”

“No, about Australia.”

“Maybe.” He paused and looked out the window. “Maybe.”

They listened to the radio and didn’t speak for several miles. Traffic was light. Memphis was farther away.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said, looking out his window.

“Maybe.”

“Let’s go to New Orleans.”

“I’m not digging for a body.”

“Okay, okay. But let’s go there. No one will expect us. We’ll talk about the body when we get there.”

“We’ve already talked about it.”

“Just go to New Orleans, okay?”

The highway intersected another one, and they were on top of an overpass. She pointed to her right. Ten miles away, the Memphis skyline glowed and flickered under a half-moon. “Wow,” he said in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

Neither of them could know that it would be his last look at Memphis.

THEY STOPPED IN FORREST CITY, ARKANSAS, FOR GAS AND snacks. Reggie paid for cupcakes, a large coffee, and a Sprite, while Mark hid on the floor. Minutes later, they were back on the interstate headed for Little Rock.

Steam poured from the paper cup as she drove and watched him inhale four cupcakes. He ate like a kid—crumbs
on his pants and in the seat, cream filling on his fingers, which he licked as if he hadn’t seen food in a month. It was almost two-thirty. The road was empty except for convoys of tractor-trailer rigs. She set the cruise control on sixty-five.

“Do you think they’re chasing us yet?” he asked, finishing the last cupcake and opening the Sprite. There was a certain excitement in his voice.

“I doubt it. I’m sure the police are searching the hospital, but why would they suspect we’re together?”

“I’m worried about Mom. I called her, you know, before I called you. Told her about the escape, and that I was hiding in the hospital. She got real mad. But I think I convinced her I’m safe. I hope they don’t give her a hard time.”

“They won’t. But she’ll worry herself sick.”

“I know. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I think she can handle it. Look at what she’s already been through. My mom’s pretty tough.”

“I’ll tell Clint to call her later today.”

“Are you going to tell Clint where we’re going?”

“I’m not sure where we’re going.”

He thought about this as two trucks roared by and the Honda veered to the right.

“What would you do, Reggie?”

“For starters, I don’t think I would have escaped.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Sure it is. You’re dodging a subpoena, aren’t you? I’m doing the same thing. So what’s the difference? You don’t want to face the grand jury. I don’t want to face the grand jury, so here we are on the run. We’re in the same boat, Reggie.”

“There’s only one difference. You were in jail, and you escaped. That’s a crime.”

“I was in a jail for juveniles, and juveniles do not commit crimes. Isn’t that what you told me? Juveniles are rowdy, or delinquent, or in need of supervision, but juveniles do not commit crimes. Right?”

“If you say so. But it was wrong to escape.”

“It’s done. I can’t undo it. It’s wrong for you to dodge the law too, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely not. There’s no crime in avoiding a subpoena. I was doing fine until I picked you up.”

“Then stop the car and let me out.”

“Oh sure. Please be serious, Mark.”

“I am serious.”

“Right. And what’ll you do when you get out?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll go as far as I can, and if I get caught then I’ll just go into shock and they’ll send me back to Memphis. I’ll claim I was crazy, and they’ll never know you were involved. Just stop anytime you feel like it, and I’ll get out.” He leaned forward and punched the Seek button on the radio. For five miles they listened to Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette.

“I hate country music,” she said, and he turned it off.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Suppose we go to New Orleans and find the body. And, according to your plan, we then cut a deal with the FBI and you go into their witness protection plan. You, Dianne, and Ricky then fly off into the sunset to Australia or wherever, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then, why not cut a deal and tell them now?”

“Now you’re thinking, Reggie,” he said patronizingly,
as if she’d finally awakened and was beginning to see the light.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

“It took me a while to figure it out. The answer is easy. I don’t completely trust the FBI. Do you?”

“Not completely.”

“And I’m not willing to give them what they want until me, my mother, and my brother are already far away. You’re a good lawyer, Reggie, and you wouldn’t allow your client to take any chances, would you?”

“Go on.”

“Before I tell these clowns anything, I want to make sure we are safely put away somewhere. It’ll take some time to move Ricky. If I told them now, the bad guys might find out before we can disappear. It’s too risky.”

“But what if you told them now, and they didn’t find the body? What if Clifford was, as you say, joking?”

“I would never know, would I? I’d be undercover somewhere, getting a nose job, changing my name to Tommy or something, and all of it would be for nothing. It makes more sense to know now, Reggie, if Romey told me the truth.”

She shook her bewildered head. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“I’m not sure I follow me, either. But one thing is for certain: I’m not going to New Orleans with the U.S. marshals. I’m not going to face the grand jury on Monday and refuse to answer questions so they can throw my little butt in jail down there.”

“Good point. So how do we spend our weekend?”

“How far is it to New Orleans?”

“Five or six hours.”

“Let’s go. We can always chicken out once we get there.”

“How much trouble will it be to find the body?”

“Probably not much.”

“Can I ask where it is at Clifford’s house?”

“Well, it’s not hanging in a tree or lying in the bushes. It’ll take a little work.”

“This is completely crazy, Mark.”

“I know. It’s been a bad week.”

     34     

SO MUCH FOR A QUIET SATURDAY MORNING WITH THE kids. Jason McThune studied his feet on the rug next to his bed, and tried to focus on the clock on the wall by the bathroom door. It was almost six, still dark outside, and the cobwebs from a late night bottle of wine blurred his eyes. His wife rolled over and grunted something he could not understand.

Twenty minutes later, he found her deep under the covers and kissed her good-bye. He might not be home for a week, he said, but doubted if she heard. Saturdays at work and days out of town were the norm. Nothing unusual.

But today would be unusual. He opened the door and the dog ran into the backyard. How could an eleven-year-old kid simply disappear? The Memphis police had no idea. He just vanished, the lieutenant said.

Not surprisingly, traffic was light in the predawn hours as he headed for the Federal Building downtown. He punched numbers on his car phone. Agents Brenner, Latchee, and Durston were roused from sleep and
instructed to meet him immediately. He flipped through his black book and found the Alexandria number for K. O. Lewis.

K.O. was not asleep, but neither was he in the mood to be disturbed. He was eating his oatmeal, enjoying his coffee, chatting with his wife, and just how in the hell could an eleven-year-old kid disappear while in police custody? he demanded. McThune told him what he knew, which was nothing, and asked him to be ready to come to Memphis. It could be a long weekend. K.O. said he would make a couple of calls, find the jet, and call him back at the office.

At the office McThune called Larry Trumann in New Orleans, and was delighted when Trumann answered the phone disoriented and obviously trying to sleep. This was Trumann’s case, though McThune had worked on it all week. And just for fun, he called George Ord and asked him to come on down with the rest of the gang. McThune explained he was hungry, and could George please bring some Egg McMuffins.

By seven, Brenner, Latchee, and Durston were in his office gulping coffee and speculating wildly. Ord arrived next without the food, then two uniformed Memphis policemen knocked on the door to the outer office. Ray Trimble, Deputy Chief of Police and a legend in Memphis law enforcement, was with them.

They assembled in McThune’s office, and Trimble, in fluent coptalk, got right to the point. “Subject was transported from the detention center by ambulance to St. Peter’s around ten-thirty last night. Subject was signed in by the paramedics at St. Peter’s ER, at which time the paramedics left. Subject was not accompanied by Memphis police or jail personnel. Paramedics are certain a nurse, one Gloria Watts, female
white, signed subject in, but no paperwork can be found. Ms. Watts has stated she had subject in ER intake room, and was called out of room for an undetermined reason. She was absent for no more than ten minutes, and upon her return, subject was gone. The paperwork was gone too, and Ms. Watts assumed subject had been taken to ER for examination and treatment.” Trimble slowed a bit and cleared his throat as if this were somehow unpleasant. “At approximately five this morning, Ms. Watts was evidently preparing to leave her shift, and she checked the intake records. She thought of the subject, and began asking questions. Subject could not be found in ER, and Admissions had no record of his arrival. Hospital Security was called, then the Memphis PD. At this time, a thorough search of the hospital is under way.”

“Six hours,” McThune said in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon,” Trimble said.

“It took six hours to realize the kid was missing.”

“Yes sir, but we don’t run the hospital, you see.”

“Why was the kid transported to the hospital without security?”

“I can’t answer that. An investigation will be undertaken. It looks like an oversight.”

“Why was the kid taken to the hospital?”

Trimble took a file from a briefcase, and handed McThune a copy of Telda’s report. He read it carefully. “Says he went into shock after the U.S. marshals left. What the hell were the marshals doing there?”

Trimble opened the file again, and handed McThune the subpoena. He read it carefully, then handed it to George Ord.

“Anything else, Chief?” he said to Trimble, who
had never taken a seat and had never stopped pacing slightly. He was eager to leave.

“No sir. We’ll complete the search, and call you immediately if we find anything. We’ve got about four dozen men there right now, and we’ve been checking for a little over an hour.”

“Have you talked to the kid’s mother?”

“No sir. Not yet. She’s still asleep. We’re watching the room in case he tries to get to her.”

“I’ll talk to her first, Chief. I’ll be over in about an hour. Make sure no one sees her before I do.”

“No problem.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Trimble clicked his heels together, and for an instant looked as though he wanted to salute. He was gone, along with his officers.

McThune looked at Brenner and Latchee. “You guys call every available agent. Get them here right now. Immediately.” They bolted from the room.

“What about the subpoena?” he asked Ord, who was still holding it.

“I can’t believe it. Foltrigg’s lost his mind.”

“You knew nothing about it?”

“Of course not. This kid is under the jurisdiction of the Juvenile Court. I wouldn’t think of trying to reach him. Would you want to piss off Harry Roosevelt?”

“I don’t think so. We need to call him. I’ll do it, and you call Reggie Love. I’d rather not talk to her.”

Ord left the room to find a phone. “Call the U.S. marshal,” McThune snapped at Durston. “Get the scoop on this subpoena. I want to know everything about it.”

Durston left, and suddenly McThune was alone. He raced through a phone book until he found the
Roosevelts. But there was no Harry. If he had a number, it was unlisted, and that was perfectly understandable with no less than fifty thousand single mothers trying to collect unpaid child support. McThune made three quick calls to lawyers he knew, and the third one said that Harry lived on Kensington Street. He would send an agent when he could spare one.

Ord returned shaking his head. “I talked to Reggie Love’s mother, but she asked more questions than I did. I don’t think she’s there.”

“I’ll send two men as soon as possible. I guess you’d better call Foltrigg, the dumbass.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Ord turned and left the office again.

*     *     *

AT EIGHT, MCTHUNE LEFT THE ELEVATOR ON THE NINTH floor of St. Peter’s with Brenner and Durston following close behind. Three more agents, decked out in a splendid variety of hospital garb, met him at the elevator and walked with him to Room 943. Three massive security guards stood near the door. McThune knocked gently, and motioned for his small squadron to back away. He didn’t want to scare the poor woman.

The door opened slightly. “Yes,” came a weak voice from the darkness.

“Ms. Sway, I’m Jason McThune, Special Agent, FBI. I saw you in court yesterday.”

The door opened wider, and Dianne stepped into the crack. She said nothing, just waited for his next words.

“Can I talk to you in private?”

She glanced to her left—three security guards, two
agents, and three men in scrubs and lab jackets. “In private?” she said.