“Have you told me everything you know about Mark?”
Foltrigg and Trumann checked their notes. “Yes, I think so.”
“What’s that?” she insisted, pointing to the file McThune was lost in. He was reading about her suicide attempt, by pills, and it was alleged in the pleadings, sworn under oath, that she’d been in a coma for four days before pulling out. Evidently, her ex-husband, Dr. Cardoni, a real piece of scum according to the pleadings, was a nasty sort with all the money and lawyers, and as soon as Regina/Reggie here took the pills he ran to court with a pile of motions to get the kids. Looking at the dates stamped on the papers, it was obvious the good doctor was filing requests and asking for hearings while she was lost in a coma and fighting for her life.
McThune didn’t panic. He looked at her innocently and said, “Just some of our internal stuff.” It was not a lie, because he was afraid to lie to her. She had the tape, and had sworn them to truthfulness.
“About my client?”
“Oh no.”
She studied her legal pad. “Let’s meet again tomorrow,” she said. It was not a suggestion, but a directive.
“We’re really in a hurry, Reggie,” Foltrigg pleaded.
“Well, I’m not. And I guess I’m calling the shots, aren’t I?”
“I guess you are.”
“I need time to digest this and talk with my client.”
This was not what they wanted, but it was painfully clear this was all they would get. Foltrigg dramatically screwed the top onto his pen and slid his notes into his briefcase. Trumann and McThune followed his lead and for a minute the table shook as they shuffled paper and files and restuffed everything.
“What time tomorrow?” Foltrigg asked, slamming his briefcase and pushing away from the table.
“Ten. In this office.”
“Will Mark Sway be here?”
“I don’t know.”
They stood and filed out of the room.
12
Wally Boxx called the office in New Orleans AT least four times every hour. Foltrigg had forty-seven assistant U.S. attorneys fighting all sorts of crime and protecting the interests of the government, and Wally was in charge of relaying orders from the boss in Memphis. In addition to Thomas Fink, three other attorneys were working on the Muldanno case, and Wally felt the need to call them every fifteen minutes with instructions, and the latest on Clifford. By noon, the entire office knew of Mark Sway and his little brother. The place buzzed with gossip and speculation. How much did the kid know? Would he lead them to the body? Initially, these questions were pondered in hushed whispers by the three Muldanno prosecutors, but by midafternoon the secretaries in the coffee room were exchanging wild theories about the suicide note and what was told to the kid before Clifford ate his bullet. All other work virtually stopped as Foltrigg’s office waited for Wally’s next call.
Foltrigg had been burned by leaks before. He’d fired people he suspected of talking too much. He’d required polygraphs for all lawyers, paralegals, investigators, and secretaries who worked for him. He kept sensitive information under lock and key for fear of leakage by his own people. He lectured and threatened.
But Roy Foltrigg was not the sort of person to inspire intense loyalty. He was not appreciated by many of the assistants. He played the political game. He used cases for his own raw ambition. He hogged the spotlight and took credit for all the good work, and blamed his subordinates for all the bad. He sought marginal indictments against elected officials for a few cheap headlines. He investigated his enemies and dragged their names through the press. He was a political whore whose only talent with the law was in the courtroom, where he preached to juries and quoted scripture. He was a Reagan appointee with one year left, and most of the assistant attorneys were counting the days. They encouraged him to run for office. Any office.
The reporters in New Orleans began calling at 8 A.M. They wanted an official comment about Clifford from Foltrigg’s office. They did not get one. Then Willis Upchurch performed at two o’clock, with Muldanno glowering at his side, and more reporters came snooping around the office. There were hundreds of phone calls to Memphis and back.
People talked.
They stood before the dirty window at the end of the hall on the ninth floor, and watched the rush-hour traffic of downtown. Dianne nervously lit a Virginia Slim, and blew a heavy cloud of smoke. “Who is this lawyer?”
“Her name is Reggie Love.”
“How’d you find her?”
He pointed to the Sterick Building four blocks away. “I went to her office in that building right there, and I talked to her.”
“Why, Mark?”
“These cops scare me, Mom. The police and FBI are crawling all over this place. And reporters. I had one catch me in the elevator this afternoon. I think we need some legal advice.”
“Lawyers don’t work for free, Mark. You know we can’t afford a lawyer.”
“I’ve already paid her,” he said like a tycoon.
“What? How can you pay a lawyer?”
“She wanted a small retainer, and she got one. I gave her a dollar from that five that went for doughnuts this morning.”
“She’s working for a dollar? She must be a great lawyer.”
“She’s pretty good. I’ve been impressed so far.”
Dianne shook her head in amazement. During her nasty divorce, Mark, then age nine, had constantly criticized her lawyer. He watched hours of reruns of Perry Mason and never missed L.A. Law. It had been years since she’d won an argument with him.
“What has she done so far?” Dianne asked, as if she were emerging from a dark cave and seeing sunlight for the first time in a month.
“At noon, she met with some FBI agents, and ripped them up pretty good. And later, she met with them again in her office. I haven’t talked with her since then.”
“What time is she coming here?”
“Around six. She wants to meet you and talk to Dr. Greenway. You’ll really like her, Mom.”
Dianne filled her lungs with smoke, and exhaled. “But why do we need her, Mark? I don’t understand why she’s entered the picture. You’ve done nothing wrong. You and Ricky saw the car, you tried to help the man, but he shot himself anyway. And you guys saw it. Why do you need a lawyer?”
“Well, I did lie to the cops at first, and that scares me. And I was afraid we might get in trouble because we didn’t stop the man from shooting himself. It’s all pretty scary, Mom.”
She watched him intently as he explained this, and he avoided her eyes. There was a long pause. “Have you told me everything?” She asked this very slowly, as if she knew.
At first he’d lied to her at the trailer while they waited for the ambulance, with Hardy lingering nearby, all ears. Then last night, in Ricky’s room, under cross-examination by Greenway, he had told the first version of the truth. He remembered how sad she had been when she heard this revised story, and later how she’d said, “You never lie to me, Mark.”
They’d been through so much together, and here he was dancing around the truth, dodging questions, telling Reggie more than he’d told his mother. It made him sick.
“Mom, it all happened so fast yesterday. It was all a blur in my mind last night, but I’ve been thinking about it today. Thinking hard. I’ve gone through each step, minute by minute, and I’m remembering things now.”
“Such as?”
“Well, you know how this has affected Ricky. I think it shocked me sort of like that. Not as bad, but I’m remembering things now that I should have remembered last night when I talked to Dr. Greenway. Does this make sense?”