At issue, at the heart of their research, was the question of how Mark Sway could be made to divulge information if he didn’t want to. If someone possesses information crucial to a criminal prosecution, and that person chooses not to talk, then how can the information be obtained? For issue number two, Foltrigg wanted to know if Reggie Love could be made to divulge whatever Mark Sway had told her. The attorney-client privilege is almost sacred, but Roy wanted it researched anyway.
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.