“We need to talk to your client, Ms. Love.”
“It’s Reggie. Okay, Roy?”
“Whatever. We think he knows something, plain and simple.”
“Such as?”
“Well, we’re convinced little Mark was in the car with Jerome Clifford prior to his death. We think he spent more than a few seconds with him. Clifford was obviously planning to kill himself, and we have reason to believe he wanted to tell someone where his client, Mr. Muldanno, had disposed of the body of Senator Boyette.”
“What makes you think he wanted to tell?”
“It’s a long story, but he had contacted an assistant in my office on two occasions and hinted that he might be willing to cut some deal and get out. He was scared. And he was drinking a lot. Very erratic behavior. He was sliding off the deep end, and wanted to talk.”
“Why do you think he talked to my client?”
“There’s just a chance, okay. And we must look under every stone. Surely you understand.”
“I sense a bit of desperation.”
“A lot of desperation, Reggie. I’m leveling with you. We know who killed the senator, but, frankly, I’m not ready for trial without a corpse.” He paused and smiled warmly at her. Despite his many obnoxious flaws, Roy had spent hours before juries and he knew how and when to act sincere.
And she’d spent many hours in therapy, and she could spot a fake. “I’m not telling you that you cannot talk to Mark Sway. You cannot talk to him today, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Things are moving fast. Mr. Clifford’s body is still warm. Let’s slow down a bit, and take it one step at a time. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now, convince me Mark Sway was in the car with Jerome Clifford prior to the shooting.”
No problem. Foltrigg looked at a notepad, and reeled off the many places where fingerprints were matched. Rear taillights, trunk, front passenger door handle and lock switch, dash, gun, bottle of Jack Daniel’s. There was a tentative match on the hose, but it was not definite. They were working on it. Foltrigg was the prosecutor now, building a case with indisputable evidence...
Reggie took pages of notes. She knew Mark had been in the car, but she had no idea he’d left such a wide trail.
“The whiskey bottle?” she asked.
Foltrigg flipped a page for the details. “Yes, three definite prints. No question about it.”
Mark had told her about the gun, but not about the bottle. “Seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?”
“It’s all strange at this point. The police officers who talked to him do not recall smelling alcohol, so I don’t think he drank any of it. I’m sure he could explain it, you know, if only we could talk to him.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“So he didn’t tell you about the bottle?”
“No.”
“Did he explain the gun?”
“I cannot divulge what my client has explained to me.”
Foltrigg waited desperately for a hint, and this really angered him. Trumann likewise waited breathlessly. McThune stopped reading the report of a court-appointed psychiatrist.
“So he hasn’t told you everything?” Foltrigg asked.
“He’s told me a lot. It’s possible he missed some of the details.”
“These details could be crucial.”
“I’ll determine what’s crucial and what’s not. What else do you have?”
“Hand her the note,” Foltrigg instructed Trumann, who produced it from a file and handed it to her. She read it slowly, then read it again. Mark had not mentioned the note.
“Obviously two different pens,” Foltrigg explained. “We found the blue one in the car, a cheap Bic, out of ink. Just speculating, it looks as though Clifford tried to add something after Mark left the car. The word ‘where’ seems to indicate the boy was gone. It’s obvious they talked, exchanged names, and that the kid was in the car long enough to touch everything.”
“No prints on this?” she asked, waving the note.
“None. We’ve checked it thoroughly. The kid did not touch it.”
She calmly placed it next to her legal pad and folded her hands together. “Well, Roy, I think the big question is, How did you guys match his fingerprints? How did you obtain one of his to match with the ones in the car?” She asked this with the same confident sneer Trumann and McThune had seen when she produced the tape less than four hours ago.
“Very simple. We lifted one off a soft drink can at the hospital last night.”
“Did you ask either Mark Sway or his mother before doing so?”
“No.”
“So you invaded the privacy of an eleven-year-old child.”
“No. We are trying to obtain evidence.”
“Evidence? Evidence for what? Not for a crime, I dare say. The crime has been committed and the body has been disposed of. You just can’t find it. What other crime do we have here? Suicide? Watching a suicide?”
“Did he watch the suicide?”
“I can’t tell you what he did or saw because he has confided in me as his lawyer. Our talks are privileged, you know that, Roy. What else have you taken from this child?”
“Nothing.”
She snorted as if she didn’t believe this. “What else do you have?”
“This is not enough?”
“I want it all.”
Foltrigg flipped pages back and forth and did a slow burn. “You’ve seen the puffy left eye and the knot on his forehead. The police said there was a trace of blood on his lip when they found him at the scene. Clifford’s autopsy revealed a spot of blood on the back of his right hand, and it’s not his type.”
“Let me guess. It’s Mark’s.”
“Probably so. Same blood type.”
“How do you know his blood type?”
Foltrigg dropped the legal pad and rubbed his face. The most effective defense lawyers are those who keep the fighting away from the issues. They bitch and throw rocks over the tiny subplots of a case and hope the prosecution and the jury are diverted away from the obvious guilt of their clients. If there’s something to hide, then scream at the other guy for violating technicalities. Right now they should be nailing down the facts of what, if anything, Clifford said to Mark. It should be so simple. But now the kid had a lawyer, and here they were trying to explain how they obtained certain crucial information. There was nothing wrong with lifting prints from a can without asking. Good police work. But from the mouth of a defense lawyer, it’s suddenly a vicious invasion of privacy. Next she would threaten a lawsuit. And now, the blood.
She was good. He found it difficult to believe she’d been practicing only four years.
“From his brother’s hospital admission records.”
“And how did you obtain the hospital records?”
“We have ways.”
Trumann braced for a reprimand. McThune hid behind the file. They had been burned by this temper. She’d made them stutter and stammer and sweat blood, and now it was time for old Roy to take a few punches. It was almost funny.
But she kept her cool. She slowly extended a skinny finger with white nail polish and pointed it at Roy. “If you get near my client again and attempt to obtain anything from him without my permission, I’ll sue you and the FBI. I’ll file an ethics complaint with the state bar in Louisiana and Tennessee, and I’ll haul your ass into Juvenile Court here and ask the judge to lock you up.” The words were spoken in an even voice, no emotion, but so matter-of-factly that everyone in the room, including Roy Foltrigg, knew that she would do exactly as she promised.
He smiled and nodded. “Fine. Sorry if we’ve gotten a bit out of line. But we’re anxious, and we must talk to your client.”