He sorted the mail and placed it carefully on her clean desk. He poured his first cup of coffee in the kitchen, and read with great interest the front-page story about her newest client. As usual, Slick had his facts. And, as usual, the facts were stretched with a good dose of innuendo thrown in. The boys favored each other, but Ricky’s hair was a shade lighter. He smiled with several teeth missing.
Clint placed the front page in the center of Reggie’s desk.
Unless she was expected in court, Reggie seldom made it to the office before 9 A.M. She was a slow starter who usually hit her stride around four in the afternoon and preferred to work late.
Her mission as a lawyer was to protect abused and neglected children, and she did this with great skill and passion. The juvenile courts routinely called her for indigent work representing kids who needed lawyers but didn’t know it. She was a zealous advocate for small clients who could not say thanks. She had sued fathers for molesting daughters. She had sued uncles for raping their nieces. She had sued mothers for abusing their babies. She had investigated parents for exposing their children to drugs. She served as legal guardian for more than twenty children. And she worked the Juvenile Court as appointed counsel for kids in trouble with the law. She performed pro bono work for children in need of commitment to mental facilities. The money was adequate, but not important. She had money once, lots of it, and it had brought nothing but misery.
She sipped the southern pecan, pronounced it good, and planned the day with Clint. It was a ritual adhered to whenever possible.
As she picked up the newspaper, the buzzer rang as the door opened. Clint jumped to answer it. He found Mark Sway standing in the reception room, wet from the drizzle and out of breath.
“Good morning, Mark. You’re all wet.”
“I need to see Reggie.” His bangs stuck to his forehead and water dripped from his nose. He was in a daze.
“Sure.” Clint backed away from him, and returned with a hand towel from the rest room. He wiped Mark’s face, and said, “Follow me.”
Reggie was waiting in the center of her office. Clint closed the door and left them alone.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I think we need to talk.” She pointed, and he sat in a wingback chair and she sat on the sofa.
“What’s going on, Mark?” His eyes were red and tired. He stared at the flowers on the coffee table.
“Ricky snapped out of it early this morning.”
“That’s great. What time?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“You look tired. Would you like some hot cocoa?”
“No. Did you see the paper this morning?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Does it scare you?”
“Of course it scares me.” Clint knocked on the door, then opened it and brought the hot cocoa anyway. Mark thanked him and held it with both hands. He was cold and the warm cup helped. Clint closed the door and was gone.
“When do we meet with the FBI?” he asked.
“In an hour. Why?”
He sipped the cocoa and it burned his tongue. “I’m not sure I want to talk to them.”
“Okay. You don’t have to, you know. I’ve explained all this.”
“I know. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Mark. You look scared.”
“It’s been a rough morning.” He took another tiny sip, then another. “What would happen to me if I never told anyone what I know?”
“You’ve told me.”
“Yeah, but you can’t tell. And I haven’t told you everything, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve told you that I know where the body is, but I haven’t told—”
“I know, Mark. I don’t know where it is. There’s a big difference, and I certainly understand it.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“Not really. Not now.”
She was relieved but didn’t show it. “Okay, then I don’t want to know.”
“So what happens to me if I never tell?”
She’d thought about this for hours, and still had no answer. But she’d met Foltrigg, had watched him under pressure, and was convinced he would try all legal means to extract the information from her client. As much as she wanted to, she could not advise him to lie.
A lie would work just fine. One simple lie, and Mark Sway could live the rest of his life without regard to what happened in New Orleans. And why should he worry about Muldanno and Foltrigg and the late Boyd Boyette? He was just a kid, guilty of neither crime nor major sin.
“I think that an effort will be made to force you to talk.”
“How does it work?”
“I’m not sure. It’s very rare, but I believe steps can be taken in court to force you to testify about what you know. Clint and I have been researching it.”
“I know what Clifford told me, but I don’t know if it’s the truth.”
“But you think it’s the truth, don’t you, Mark?”
“I think so, I guess. I don’t know what to do.” He was mumbling softly, at times barely audible, unwilling to look at her. “Can they make me talk?” he asked.
She answered carefully. “It could happen. I mean, a lot of things could happen. But, yes, a judge in a courtroom one day soon could order you to talk.”
“And if I refused?”
“Good question, Mark. It’s a gray area. If an adult refuses a court order, he’s in contempt of court and runs the risk of being locked up. I don’t know what they’d do with a child. I’ve never heard of it before.”
“What about a polygraph?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say they drag me into court, and the judge tells me to spill my guts, and I tell the story but leave out the most important part. And they think I’m lying. What then? Can they strap me in the chair and start asking questions? I saw it in a movie one time.”
“You saw a child take a polygraph?”
“No. It was some cop who got caught lying. But, I mean, can they do it to me?”
“I doubt it. I’ve never heard of it, and I’d be fighting like crazy to stop it.”
“But it could happen.”
“I’m not sure. I doubt it.” These were hard questions coming at her like gunfire, and she had to be careful. Clients often heard what they wanted to hear and missed the rest. “But I must warn you, Mark, if you lie in court you could be in big trouble.”
He thought about this for a second, and said, “If I tell the truth I’m in bigger trouble.”
“Why?”
She waited a long time for a response. Every twenty seconds or so, he would take a sip of the cocoa, but he was not at all interested in answering this question. The silence did not bother him. He stared at the table, but his mind whirled away somewhere else.
“Mark, last night you indicated you were ready to talk to the FBI and tell them your story. Now it’s obvious you’ve changed your mind. Why? What’s happened?”
Without a word, he gently placed the cup on the table and covered his eyes with his fists. His chin dropped to his chest, and he started crying.
The door opened into the reception area and a Federal Express lady ran in with a box three inches thick. All smiles and perfect efficiency, she handed it to Clint and showed him where to sign. She thanked him, wished him a nice day, and vanished.
The package was expected. It was from Print Research, an amazing little outfit in D.C. that did nothing but scan two hundred daily newspapers nationwide and catalogue the stories. The news was clipped, copied, computerized, and readily available within twenty-four hours for those willing to pay. Reggie didn’t want to pay, but she needed quick background on Boyette et al. Clint had placed the order yesterday, as soon as Mark left and Reggie had herself a new client. The search was limited to the New Orleans and Washington papers.