He squeezed under an umbrella and looked at the mini-cam. The reporter waved a microphone in his face. “Jerome Clifford was a rival. Why did you attend his memorial service?”
He was suddenly sad. “Jerome was a fine lawyer, and a friend of mine. We faced each other many times, but always respected each other.” What a guy. Gracious even in death. He hated Jerome Clifford and Jerome Clifford hated him, but the camera saw only the heartbreak of a grieving pal.
“Mr. Muldanno has hired a new lawyer and filed a motion for a continuance. What is your response to this?”
“As you know, Judge Lamond has scheduled a hearing on the continuance request for tomorrow morning at 10 A.M. The decision will be his. The United States will be ready for trial whenever he sets it.”
“Do you expect to find the body of Senator Boyette before trial?”
“Yes. I think we’re getting close.”
“Is it true you were in Memphis just hours after Mr. Clifford shot himself?”
“Yes.” He sort of shrugged as if it was no big deal.
“There are news reports in Memphis that the kid who was with Mr. Clifford when he shot himself may know something about the Boyette case. Any truth to this?”
He smiled sheepishly, another trademark. When the answer was yes, but he couldn’t say it, but he wanted to send the message anyway, he just grinned at the reporters and said, “I can’t comment on that.”
“I can’t comment on that,” he said, glancing around as if time was up and his busy trial calendar was calling.
“Does the boy know where the body is?”
“No comment,” he said with irritation. The rain grew harder, and splashed on his socks and shoes. “I have to be going.”
After an hour in jail, Mark was ready to escape. He inspected both windows. The one above the lavatory had some wire in it, but that did not matter. What was troubling, though, was the fact that any object exiting through this window, including a boy, would fall directly down at least fifty feet, and the fall would be stopped by a concrete sidewalk lined with chain-link fencing and barbed wire. Also, both windows were thick and too small for escape, he determined.
He would be forced to make his break when they transported him, maybe take a hostage or two. He’d seen some great movies about jailbreaks. His favorite was Escape from Alcatraz with Clint Eastwood. He’d figure it out.
Doreen knocked on the door, jangled her keys, and stepped inside. She held a directory and a black phone, which she plugged into the wall. “It’s yours for ten minutes. No long distance.” Then she was gone, the door clicking loudly behind her, the cheap perfume floating heavy in the air and burning his eyes.
He found the number for St. Peter’s, asked for Room 943, and was informed that no calls were being put through to that room. Ricky’s asleep, he thought. Must be bad. He found Reggie’s number, and listened to Clint’s voice on the recorder. He called Greenway’s office, and was informed the doctor was at the hospital. Mark explained exactly who he was, and the secretary said she believed the doctor was seeing Ricky. He called Reggie again. Same recording. He left an urgent message — “Get me out of jail, Reggie!” He called her home number, and listened to another recording.
He stared at the phone. With about seven minutes left, he had to do something. He flipped through the directory, and found the listings for the Memphis Police Department. He picked the North Precinct and dialed the number.
“Detective Klickman,” he said.
“Just a minute,” said the voice on the other end. He held for a few seconds, then a voice said, “Who’re you holding for?”
He cleared his throat and tried to sound gruff. “Detective Klickman.”
“He’s on duty.”
“When will he be in?”
“Around lunch.”
“Thanks.” Mark hung up quickly, and wondered if the lines were bugged. Probably not. After all, these phones were used by criminals and people like himself to call their lawyers and talk business. There had to be privacy.
He memorized the precinct phone number and address, then flipped to the Yellow Pages under Restaurants. He punched a number, and a friendly voice said, “Domino’s Pizza. May I take your order.”
He cleared his throat and tried to sound hoarse. “Yes, I’d like to order four of your large supremes.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Need them delivered at noon.”
“Your name?”
“I’m ordering them for Detective Klickman, North Precinct.”
“Delivered where?”
“North Precinct — 3633 Allen Road. Just ask for Klickman.”
“We’ve been there before, believe me. Phone number?”
“It’s 555-8989.”
There was a short pause as the adding machine rang it up. “That’ll be forty-eight dollars and ten cents.”
“Fine. Don’t need it until noon.”
Mark hung up, his heart pounding. But he’d done it once, and he could do it again. He found the Pizza Hut numbers, there were seventeen in Memphis, and started placing orders. Three said they were too far away from downtown. He hung up on them. One young girl was suspicious, said he sounded too young, and he hung up on her too. But for the most part it was just routine business — call, place the order, give the address and phone number, and allow free enterprise to handle the rest.
When Doreen knocked on the door twenty minutes later, he was ordering Klickman some Chinese food from Wong Boys. He quickly hung up and walked to the bunks. She took great satisfaction in removing the phone, like taking toys away from bad little boys. But she was not quick enough. Detective Klickman had ordered about forty deep-dish supreme deluxe large pizzas and a dozen Chinese lunches, all to be delivered around noon, at a cost of somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred dollars.
For his hangover, Gronke sipped his fourth orange juice of the morning and washed down another headache powder. He stood at the window of his hotel room, shoes off, belt unbuckled, shirt unbuttoned, and listened painfully as Jack Nance reported the disturbing news.
“Happened less than thirty minutes ago,” Nance said, sitting on the dresser, staring at the wall, trying to ignore this goon standing at the window with his back to him.
“Why?” Gronke grunted.
“Has to be youth court. They took him straight to jail. I mean, hell, they can’t just pick a kid, or anybody else for that matter, and take him straight to jail. They had to file something in youth court. Cal’s there now, checking it out. Maybe we’ll have it soon, I don’t know. Youth court records are locked up, I think.”
“Get the damned records, okay.”
Nance seethed but bit his tongue. He hated Gronke and his little band of cutthroats, and even though he needed the hundred bucks an hour he was tired of hanging around this dirty, smoky room like a flunky waiting to be barked at. He had other clients. Cal was a nervous wreck.
“We’re trying,” he said.
“Try harder,” Gronke said to the window. “Now I gotta call Barry and tell him the kid’s been taken away and there’s no way to get to him. Got him locked up somewhere, probably with a cop sittin’ outside his door.” He finished the orange juice and tossed the can in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed and rattled along the wall. He glared at Nance. “Barry’ll wanna know if there’s a way to get the kid. What would you suggest?”
“I suggest you leave the kid alone. This is not New Orleans, and this is not just some little punk you can rub out and make everything wonderful. This kid’s got baggage, lots of it. People are watching him. If you do something stupid, you’ll have a hundred fibbies all over your ass. You won’t be able to breathe, and you and Mr. Muldanno will rot in jail. Here, not New Orleans.”