Trumann was in for a transfer. He was sick of tourists, traffic, humidity, crime, and he was sick of Roy Foltrigg. He turned by Rubinstein Brothers and headed for Poydras.
Foltrigg was not afraid of hard work. It came natural to him. He’d realized in law school that he was not a genius, and that to succeed he’d need to put in more hours. He studied his ass off, and finished somewhere in the middle of the pack. But he’d been elected president of the student body, and there was a certificate declaring this achievement framed in oak somewhere on one of his walls. His career as a political animal started at the moment when his law school classmates chose him as their president, a position most did not know existed and couldn’t have cared less about. Job offers had been scarce for young Roy, and at the last minute he jumped at the chance to be an assistant city prosecutor in New Orleans. Fifteen thousand bucks a year in 1975. In two years he handled more cases than all the other city prosecutors combined. He worked. He put in long hours in a dead-end job because he was going places. He was a star but no one noticed.
He began dabbling in local Republican politics, a lonely hobby, and learned to play the game. He met people with money and clout, and landed a job with a law firm. He put in incredible hours and became a partner. He married a woman he didn’t love because she had the right credentials and a wife brought respectability. Roy was on the move. There was a game plan.
He was still married to her but they slept in different rooms. The kids were now twelve and ten. A pretty family portrait.
He preferred the office to his home, which suited his wife just fine because she didn’t like him but did enjoy his salary.
Roy’s conference table was once again covered with law books and legal pads. Wally had shed his tie and jacket. Empty coffee cups littered the room. They were both tired.
The law was quite simple: Every citizen owes to society the duty of giving testimony to aid in the enforcement of the law. And, a witness is not excused from testifying because of his fear of reprisal threatening his and/or his family’s lives. It was black letter law, as they say, carved in stone over the years by hundreds of judges and justices. No exceptions. No exemptions. No loopholes for scared little boys. Roy and Wally had read dozens of cases. Many were copied and highlighted and thrown about on the table. The kid would have to talk. If the Juvenile Court approach in Memphis fell through, Foltrigg planned to issue a subpoena for Mark Sway to appear before the grand jury in New Orleans. It would scare the little punk to death, and loosen his tongue.
Trumann walked through the door and said, “You guys are working late.”
Wally Boxx pushed away from the table and stretched his arms mightily above his head. “Yeah, a lot of stuff to cover,” he said, exhausted, waving his hand proudly at the piles of books and notes.
“Have a seat,” Foltrigg said, pointing at a chair. “We’re finishing up.” He stretched too, then cracked his knuckles. He loved his reputation as a workaholic, a man of importance unafraid of painful hours, a family man whose calling went beyond wife and kids. The job meant everything. His client was the United States of America.
Trumann had heard this eighteen-hour-a-day crap for seven years now. It was Foltrigg’s favorite subject — talking about himself and the hours at the office and the body that needed no sleep. Lawyers wear their loss of sleep like a badge of honor. Real macho machines grinding it out around the clock.
“I’ve got an idea,” Trumann said, sitting across the table. “You told me earlier about the hearing in Memphis tomorrow. In Juvenile Court.”
“We’re filing a petition,” Roy corrected him. “I don’t know when the hearing will take place. But we’ll ask for a quick one.”
“Yeah, well, what about this? Just before I left the office this afternoon, I talked to K. O. Lewis, Voyles’s number-one deputy.”
“I know K.O.,” Foltrigg interrupted. Trumann knew this was coming. In fact, he paused just a split second so Foltrigg could interrupt and set him straight about how close he was to K.O., not Mr. Lewis, but simply K.O.
“Right. Well, he’s in St. Louis attending a conference, and he asked about the Boyette case and Jerome Clifford and the kid. I told him what we knew. He said feel free to call if he could do anything. Said Mr. Voyles wants daily reports.”
“I know all this.”
“Right. Well, I was just thinking. St. Louis is an hour’s flight from Memphis, right. What if Mr. Lewis presented himself to the Juvenile Court judge in Memphis first thing in the morning when the petition is filed, and what if Mr. Lewis has a little chat with the judge and leans on him? We’re talking about the number-two man in the FBI. He tells the judge what we think this kid knows.”
Foltrigg began nodding his approval, and when Wally saw this he began nodding too, only faster.
Trumann continued. “And there’s something else. We know Gronke is in Memphis, and it’s safe to assume he’s not there to visit Elvis’s grave. Right? He’s been sent there by Muldanno. So I was thinking, what if we assume the kid is in danger, and Mr. Lewis explains to the Juvenile Court judge that it’s in the best interests of the kid for us to take him into custody? You know, for his own protection?”
“I like this,” Foltrigg said softly. Wally liked it too.
“The kid’ll crack under the pressure. First, he’s taken into custody by order of the Juvenile Court, same as any other case, and that’ll scare the hell out of him. Might also wake up his lawyer. Hopefully the judge orders the kid to talk. At that point, the kid’ll crack, I believe. If not, he’s in contempt, maybe. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, he’s in contempt, but we can’t predict what the judge will do at that point.”
“Right. So Mr. Lewis tells the judge about Gronke and his connections with the mob, and that we believe he’s in Memphis to harm the kid. Either way, we get the kid in custody, away from his lawyer. The bitch.”
Foltrigg was wired now. He scribbled something on a legal pad. Wally stood and began pacing thoughtfully around the library, deep in thought as if things were conspiring to force him to make a significant decision.
Trumann could call her a bitch here in the privacy of an office in New Orleans. But he remembered the tape. And he would be happy to remain in New Orleans, far away from her. Let McThune deal with Reggie in Memphis.
“Can you get K.O. on the phone?” Foltrigg asked.
“I think so.” Trumann pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket and began punching numbers on the phone.
Foltrigg met Wally in the corner, away from the agent. “It’s a great idea,” Wally said. “I’m sure this Juvenile Court judge is just some local yokel who’ll listen to K.O. and do whatever he wants, don’t you think?”
Trumann had Mr. Lewis on the phone. Foltrigg watched him while listening to Wally. “Maybe, but regardless, we get the kid in court quickly and I think he’ll fold. If not, he’s in custody, under our control and away from his lawyer. I like it.”
They whispered for a while as Trumann talked to K. O. Lewis. Trumann nodded at them, gave the okay sign with a big smile, and hung up. “He’ll do it,” he said proudly. “He’ll catch an early morning flight to Memphis and meet with Fink. Then they’ll get with George Ord and descend on the judge.” Trumann was walking toward them, very proud of himself. “Think about it. The U.S. attorney on one side, K. O. Lewis on the other, and Fink in the middle, first thing in the morning when the judge gets to the office. They’ll have the kid talking in no time.”