“It won’t go that far,” Foltrigg predicted calmly. “If we file a petition as an interested party, serve the kid’s mother with papers, drag his little butt into court with his lawyer in tow, then I think he’ll be so scared he’ll tell what he knows. What about you, Thomas?”
“Yeah, I think it’ll work. And what if it doesn’t? What’s the downside?”
“There’s little risk,” Bobby explained. “All Juvenile Court proceedings are closed. We can even ask that the petition be kept under lock and key. If it’s dismissed initially for lack of standing or whatever, no one will know it. If we proceed to the hearing and A, the kid talks but doesn’t know anything, or B, the judge refuses to make him talk, then we haven’t lost anything. And C, if the kid talks out of fear or under threat of contempt, then we’ve gotten what we wanted. Assuming the kid knows about Boyette.”
“He knows,” Foltrigg said.
“The plan would not be so attractive if the proceedings were made public. We would look weak and desperate if we lost. It could, in my opinion, seriously undermine our chances at trial here in New Orleans if we try this and fail, and if it’s in some way publicized.”
The door opened and Wally Boxx, fresh from having successfully parked the van, entered and seemed irritated that they had proceeded without him. He sat next to Foltrigg.
“But you’re certain it can be done in private?” Fink asked.
“That’s what the law says. I don’t know how they apply it in Memphis, but the confidentiality is explicit in the code sections. There are even penalties for disclosure.”
“We’ll need local counsel, someone in Ord’s office,” Foltrigg said to Fink as if the decision had already been made. Then he turned to the group. “I like the sound of this. Right now the kid and his lawyer are probably thinking it’s all over. This will be a wake-up call. They’ll know we’re serious. They’ll know they’re headed for court. We’ll make it plain to his lawyer that we’ll not rest until we have the truth from the kid. I like this. Little downside risk. It’ll take place three hundred miles from here, away from these morons with cameras we have around here. If we try it and fail, no big deal. No one will know. I like the idea of no cameras and no reporters.” He paused as if deep in thought, the field marshal surveying the plains, deciding where to send his tanks.
To everyone except Boxx and Foltrigg, the humor in this was delicious. The idea of the reverend plotting strategies that did not include cameras was unheard of. He, of course, did not realize it. He bit his lip and nodded his head. Yes, yes, this was the best course. This would work.
Bobby cleared his throat. “There is one other possible approach, and I don’t like it but it’s worth mentioning. A real long shot. If you assume the kid knows—”
“He knows.”
“Thank you. Assuming this, and assuming he has confided in his lawyer, there is the possibility of a federal indictment against her for obstruction of justice. I don’t have to tell you the difficulty in piercing the attorney-client privilege; it’s virtually impossible. The indictment would, of course, be used to sort of scare her into cutting some deal. I don’t know. As I said, a real long shot.”
Foltrigg chewed on this for a second, but his mind was still churning over the first plan and it simply couldn’t digest the second.
“A conviction might be difficult,” Fink said.
“Yep,” Bobby agreed. “But a conviction would not be the goal. She would be indicted here, a long way from home, and I think it would be quite intimidating. Lots of bad press. Couldn’t keep this one quiet, you know. She’d be forced to hire a lawyer. We could string it out for months, you know, the works. You might even consider obtaining the indictment, keeping it sealed, breaking the news to her, and offering some deal in return for its dismissal. Just a thought.”
“I like it,” Foltrigg said to no one’s surprise. It had the stench of the government’s jackboot, and these strategies always appealed to him. “And we can always dismiss the indictment anytime we want.”
Ah yes! The Roy Foltrigg special. Get the indictment, hold the press conference, beat the defendant to the ground with all sorts of threats, cut the deal, then quietly dismiss the indictment a year later. He’d done it a hundred times in seven years. He’d also eaten a few of his specials when the defendant and/or his lawyer refused to deal and insisted on a trial. When this happened Foltrigg was always too busy with more important prosecutions, and the file was thrown at one of the younger assistants, who invariably got his ass kicked. Invariably, Foltrigg placed the blame squarely on the assistant. He’d even fired one for losing the trial brought about by a Roy Foltrigg special.
“That’s Plan B, okay, on hold for right now,” he said, very much in control. “Plan A is to file a petition in Juvenile Court first thing tomorrow morning. How long will it take to prepare it?”
“An hour,” answered Tank Mozingo, a burly assistant with the ponderous name of Thurston Alomar Mozingo, thus known simply as Tank. “The petition is set out in the code. We simply add the allegations and fill in the blanks.”
“Get it done.” He turned to Fink. “Thomas, you’ll handle this. Get on the phone to Ord and ask him to help us. Fly to Memphis tonight. I want the petition filed first thing in the morning, after you talk to the judge. Tell him how urgent this is.” Papers shuffled around the table as the research group began cleaning its mess. Their work was over. Fink took notes as Boxx darted for a legal pad. Foltrigg spewed forth instructions like King Solomon dictating to his scribes. “Ask the judge for an expedited hearing. Explain how much pressure is behind this. Ask for complete confidentiality, including the closing of the petition and all other pleadings. Stress this, you understand. I’ll be sitting by the phone in case I’m needed.”
Bobby was buttoning his cuffs. “Look, Roy, there’s something else we need to mention.”
“What is it?”
“We’re playing hardball with this kid. Let’s not forget the danger he’s in. Muldanno is desperate. There are reporters everywhere. A leak here and a leak there, and the mob could silence the kid before he talks. There’s a lot at stake.”
Roy flashed a confident smile. “I know that, Bobby. In fact, Muldanno’s already sent his boys to Memphis. The FBI up there is tracking them, and they’re also watching the boy. Personally, I don’t think Muldanno’s stupid enough to try something, but we’re not taking chances.” Roy stood and smiled around the room. “Good work, men. I appreciate it.”
They mumbled their thank-yous and left the library.
On the fourth floor of the Radisson Hotel in downtown Memphis, two blocks from the Sterick Building and five blocks from St. Peter’s, Paul Gronke played a monotonous game of gin rummy with Mack Bono, a Muldanno grunt from New Orleans. A heavily marked score sheet was on the floor under the table, abandoned. They had been playing for a dollar a game, but now no one cared. Gronke’s shoes were on the bed. His shirt was unbuttoned. Heavy cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling. They were drinking bottled water because it was not yet five, but almost, and when the magic hour hit they’d call room service. Gronke checked his watch. He looked through the window at the buildings across Union Avenue. He played a card.
Gronke was a childhood friend of Muldanno’s, a most trusted partner in many of his dealings. He owned a few bars and a tourist T-shirt shop in the Quarter. He’d broken his share of legs and had helped the Blade do the same. He did not know where Boyd Boyette was buried, and he wasn’t about to ask, but if he pressed hard his friend would probably tell him. They were very close.