“That’s quite a hardship on us, Your Honor.”
“Not as hard as it’s gonna be if you don’t show up. You picked this forum, Mr. Fink. Now you gotta live with it.”
Fink had flown to Memphis six hours earlier without a toothbrush or change of underwear. Now it appeared as though he might be forced to lease an apartment with bedrooms for himself and Foltrigg.
The bailiff had eased his way to the wall behind Reggie and Mark, and was watching his honor and waiting for a signal.
“Mark, I’m going to excuse you now,” Harry said, scribbling on a form, “and I’ll see you again tomorrow. If you have any problems in the detention center, you inform me tomorrow and I’ll take care of it. Okay?”
Mark nodded. Reggie squeezed his arm, and said, “I’ll talk to your mother, and I’ll come see you in the morning.”
“Tell Mom I’m fine,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll try and call her tonight.” He stood and left with the bailiff.
“Send in those FBI people,” Harry said to the bailiff as he was closing the door.
“Are we excused, Your Honor?” Fink asked. There was sweat on his forehead. He was eager to leave this room and call Foltrigg with the horrible news.
“What’s the hurry, Mr. Fink?”
“Uh, no hurry, Your Honor.”
“Then relax. I want to talk, off the record, with you boys and the FBI people. Just take a minute.” Harry excused the court reporter and the old woman. McThune and Lewis entered and took their seats behind the lawyers.
Harry unzipped his robe, but did not remove it. He wiped his face with a tissue and sipped the last of the tea. They watched and waited.
“I do not intend to keep this child in jail,” he said, looking at Reggie. “Maybe for a few days, but not long. It’s apparent to me that he has some critical information, and he’s duty bound to divulge it.”
Fink started nodding.
“He’s scared, and we can all certainly understand that. Perhaps we can convince him to talk if we can guarantee his safety, and that of his mother and brother. I’d like Mr. Lewis to help us on this. I’m open to suggestions.”
K. O. Lewis was ready. “Your Honor, we have taken preliminary steps to place him in our witness protection program.”
“I’ve heard of it, Mr. Lewis, but I’m not familiar with the details.”
“It’s quite simple. We move the family to another city. We provide new identities. We find a good job for the mother, and get them a nice place to live. Not a trailer or an apartment, but a house. We make sure the boys are in a good school. There’s some cash up front. And we stay close by.”
“Sounds tempting, Ms. Love,” Harry said.
It certainly did. At the moment, the Sways had no home. Dianne worked in a sweatshop. There were no relatives in Memphis.
“They’re not mobile right now,” she said. “Ricky is confined to the hospital.”
“We’ve already located a children’s psychiatric hospital in Portland that can take him right away,” Lewis explained. “It’s a private one, not a charity outfit like St. Peter’s, and it’s one of the best in the country. They’ll take him whenever we ask, and, of course, we’ll pay for it. After he’s released, we’ll move the family to another city.”
“How long will it take to place the entire family into the program?” Harry asked.
“Less than a week,” Lewis answered. “Director Voyles has given it top priority. The paperwork takes a few days, new driver’s license, social security numbers, birth certificates, credit cards, things like this. The family has to make the decision to do it, and the mother must tell us where she wants to go. We’ll take over from there.”
“What do you think, Ms. Love?” Harry asked. “Will Ms. Sway go for it?”
“I’ll talk to her. She’s under enormous stress right now. One kid in a coma, the other in jail, and she lost everything in the fire last night. The idea of running away in the middle of the night could be a hard sell, at least for now.”
“But you’ll try?”
“I’ll see.”
“Do you think she could be in court tomorrow? I’d like to talk to her.”
“I’ll ask the doctor.”
“Good. This meeting is adjourned. I’ll see you folks at noon tomorrow.”
The bailiff handed Mark to two Memphis policemen in plain clothes, and they took him through a side door into the parking lot. When they were gone, the bailiff climbed the stairs to the second floor and darted into an empty rest room. Empty, except for Slick Moeller.
They stood before the urinals, side by side, and stared at the graffiti.
“Are we alone?” asked the bailiff.
“Yep. What happened?” Slick had unzipped his pants and had both hands on his waist. “Be quick.”
“Kid wouldn’t talk, so he’s going back to jail. Contempt.”
“What does he know?”
“I’d say he knows everything. It’s rather obvious. He said he was in the car with Clifford, they talked about this and that, and when Harry pressed him on the New Orleans stuff the kid took the Fifth Amendment. Tough little bastard.”
“But he knows?”
“Oh sure. But he’s not telling. Judge wants him back tomorrow at noon to see if a night in the slammer changes his mind.”
Slick zipped his pants and stepped away from the urinal. He took a folded one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the bailiff.
“You didn’t hear it from me,” the bailiff said.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course.” And he did. Mole Moeller never revealed a source.
Moeller had three photographers poised at various places around the Juvenile Court building. He knew the routines better than the cops themselves, and he figured they’d use the side door near the loading dock for a quick getaway with the kid. That’s exactly what they did, and they almost made it to their unmarked car before a heavy woman in fatigues jumped from a parked van and nailed them straight on with her Nikon. The cops yelled at her, and tried to hide the kid behind them, but it was too late. They rushed him to their car, and pushed him into the backseat.
Just great, thought Mark. It was not yet 2 P.M., and so far this day had brought the burning of their trailer, his arrest at the hospital, his new home at the jail, a hearing with Judge Roosevelt, and now, another damned photographer shooting at him for what would undoubtedly be another front-page story.
As the car squealed tires and raced away, he sunk low in the backseat. His stomach ached, not from hunger, but from fear. He was alone again.
26
Foltrigg watched the traffic on Poydras Street and waited for the call from Memphis. He was tired of pacing and checking his watch. He had tried to return phone calls and dictate letters, but it was hopeless. His mind could not leave the wonderful image of Mark Sway sitting in a witness chair somewhere in Memphis telling all his splendid secrets. Two hours had passed since the hearing was scheduled to start, and surely they’d take a recess along the way so Fink could dash to a phone and call him.
Larry Trumann was on standby, waiting for the call so they could swing into action with a posse of corpse hunters. They had become quite proficient in digging for bodies during the past eight months. They just hadn’t found any.
But today would be different. Roy would take the call, walk to Trumann’s office, and off they’d go to find the late Boyd Boyette. Foltrigg talked to himself, not a whisper or a mumble, but a full-blown speech in which he addressed the media with the thrilling announcement that, yes, they had indeed found the senator, and, yes, he died of six bullet wounds to the head. The gun was a .22, and the bullet fragments were definitely, without the slightest doubt, fired from the same handgun that had been so meticulously traced to the defendant, Mr. Barry Muldanno.