The Client

1 HOMAS FINK, FRESH FROM ANOTHER EXCITING FLIGHT from. Memphis, entered Foltrigg's office at four-thirty Friday afternoon. Wally Boxx sat like a faithful lapdog on the sofa, writing what Fink presumed to be another speech for their boss, or perhaps a press release for upcoming indictments. Roy's shoeless feet were on his desk and the phone was cradled on his shoulder. He was listening with his eyes closed. The day had been a disaster. Lamond had embarrassed him in a crowded courtroom. Roosevelt had failed to make the kid talk. He'd had it with judges.

Fink removed his jacket and sat down. Foltrigg ended his phone chat and hung up. "Where are the grand jury subpoenas?" he asked.

"I hand -  delivered them to the U. S. marshal in Memphis, and gave him strict instructions not to serve them until he heard from you." Boxx left the sofa and sat next to Fink. It would be a shame if he were excluded from a conversation.

Roy rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. Frustrating, very frustrating. "So what's the kid gonna do, Thomas? You were there. You saw the kid's mother. You heard her voice. What's gonna happen?" "I don't know. It's obvious the kid has no plans to talk anytime soon. He and his mother are terrified. They've watched too much television, seen too many Mafia informants blown to bits. She's convinced they won't be safe in witness protection. She's really scared. The woman's been through hell this week." "That's real touching," Boxx mumbled.

"I have no choice but to use the subpoenas," Fol-trigg said gravely, pretending to be troubled by this thought. "They leave me no choice. We were fair and reasonable. We asked the youth court in Memphis to help us with the kid, and it simply has not worked. It's time we got these people down here, on our turf, in our courtroom, in front of our people, and made them talk. Don't you agree, Thomas?" Fink was not in full agreement. "Jurisdiction worries me. The kid is under the jurisdiction of the Juvenile Court up there, and I'm not sure what'll happen when he gets the subpoena." Roy was smiling. "That's right, but the court is closed for the weekend. We've done some research, and I think federal law supersedes state law on this one, don't you, Wally?" "I think so. Yes," said Wally.

"And I've talked to the marshal's office here. I've told them I want the boys in Memphis to pick the kid up tomorrow and bring him here so he can face the grand jury Monday. I don't think the locals in Memphis will interfere with the U. S. marshal's office. We've made arrangements to house him here in the juvenile wing at city jail. Should be a piece of cake." "What about the lawyer?" asked hmk. "You can't make her testify. If she knows anything, she learned it in the course of her representation of the kid. It's privileged." "Pure harassment," Foltrigg admitted with a smile. "She and the kid will be scared to death on Monday. We'll be calling the shots, Thomas." "Speaking of Monday. Judge Roosevelt wants us in his courtroom at noon." Roy and Wally had a good laugh at this. "He'll be a. lonely judge, won't he," Foltrigg said with a chuckle. "You, me, the kid, and the kid's lawyer will all be down here. What a fool." Fink did not join their laughter.

AT FIVE, DOREEN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR, AND RATTLED keys until it opened. Mark was on the floor playing checkers against himself, and immediately became a zombie. He sat on his feet, and stared at the checkerboard as if in a trance.

"Are you okay, Mark?" Mark didn't answer.

"Mark, honey, I'm really worried about you. I think I'll call the doctor. You might be going into shock, just like your little brother." He shook his head slowly, and looked at her -with mournful eyes. "No, I'm okay. I just need some rest." "Could you eat something?" "Maybe some pizza." "Sure, baby. I'll get one ordered. Look, honey, I get off duty in five minutes, but I'll tell Telda to watch you real close, okay. Will you be all right till I get back in the morning?" "Maybe," he moaned.

"Poor child. You got no business in here. ' "Ill make it."

TELDA WAS MUCH LESS CONCERNED THAN DOREEN. SHE checked on Mark twice. On her third visit to his room, around eight o'clock, she brought visitors. She knocked and opened the door slowly, and Mark was about to do his trance routine when he saw the two large men in suits.

"Mark, these men are U. S. marshals," Telda said nervously. Mark stood near the toilet. The room was suddenly tiny.

"Hi, Mark," said the first one. "I'm Vern Duboski, deputy U. S. marshal." His words were crisp and precise. A Yankee. But that was all Mark noticed. He was holding some papers.

"You are Mark Sway?" He nodded, unable to speak.

"Don't be afraid, Mark. We just have to give you these papers." He looked at Telda for help, but she was clueless. "What are they?" he asked nervously.

"It's a grand jury subpoena, and it means that you have to appear before a federal grand jury on Monday in New Orleans. Now, don't worry, we're gonna come get you tomorrow afternoon and drive you down." A nervous pain shot through his stomach and he was weak. His mouth was dry. "Why?" he asked.

"We can't answer that, Mark. It's none of our business, really. We're just following orders." Mark stared at the papers Vern was waving. New Orleans! "Have you told my mother?" "Well, you see, Mark, we're required to give her a copy of these same papers. We'll explain everything to her, and we'll tell her you'll be fine. In fact, she can go with you if she wants." "She can't go with me. She can't leave Ricky." The marshals looked at each other. "Well, anyway, we'll explain everything to her." "I have a lawyer, you know. Have you told her?" "No. We're not required to notify the attorneys, but you're welcome to call her if you like." "Does he have access to a telephone?" the second one asked Telda.

"Only if I bring him one," she said.

"You can wait thirty minutes, can't you?" "If you say so," Telda said.

"So, Mark, in about thirty minutes you can call your lawyer." Duboski paused and looked at his sidekick. "Well, good luck to you, Mark. Sorry if we scared you." They left him standing near the toilet, leaning on the wall for support, more confused than ever, scared to death. And angry. The system was rotten. He was sick of laws and lawyers and courts, of cops and agents and marshals, of reporters and judges and jailers. Dammit!

He yanked a paper towel from the wall and wiped his eyes, then sat on the toilet.

He swore to the walls that he would not go to New Orleans.

TWO OTHER DEPUTY MARSHALS WOULD SERVE DIANNE, AND two more would serve Ms. Reggie Love at home, and all this serving of subpoenas was carefully coordinated to happen at roughly the same time. In reality, one deputy marshal, or one unemployed concrete worker for that matter, could have served all three subpoenas at a leisurely pace and completed the job in an hour. But it was more fun to use six men in three cars with radios and telephones and guns, and to strike quickly under cover of darkness like a Special Forces assault unit.

They knocked on Momma Love's kitchen door, and waited until the porch light came on and she appeared behind the screen. She instantly knew they were trouble. During the nightmare of Reggie's divorce and commitments and legal warfare with Joe Cardoni, there had been several deputies and men in dark suits standing at her doorway at odd hours. These guys always brought trouble.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a forced smile.

"Yes ma'am. We're looking for one Reggie Love." They even talked like cops. "And who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Mike Hedley, and this is Terry Flagg. We're U. S. marshals." "U. S. marshals, or deputy U. S. marshals? Let me see some ID." This shocked them, and in perfect synchronization they reached into their pockets for their badges. "We're deputy U. S. marshals, ma'am." "That's not what you said," she said, examining the badges held up to the screen door.

Reggie was sipping coffee on the tiny balcony of her apartment when she heard the car doors slam. She was now peeking around the corner and looking down at the two men standing under the light. She could hear the voices, but could not understand what they were saying.

"Sorry, ma'am," Hedley said.

"Why do you want one Reggie Love?" Momma Love asked with a suspicious frown.

"Does she live here,?" " "Maybe, maybe not. What do you want?" Hedley and Flagg looked at each other. "We're supposed to serve her with a subpoena." "A subpoena for what?" "May I ask who you are?" Flagg said.

"I'm her mother. Now, what's the subpoena for?" "It's a grand jury subpoena. She's supposed to appear before a grand jury in New Orleans on Monday. We can just leave it with you if you like," "I'm not accepting service of it," she said as if she fought with process servers every week. "You have to actually serve her, if I'm not mistaken." "Where is she?" "She doesn't live here." This irritated them. "That's her car," Hedley said, nodding at Reggie's Mazda.

"She doesn't live here," Momma Love repeated.

"Okay, but is she here now?" "No." "Do you know where she is?" "Have you tried her office? She works all the time." "But why is her car here?" "Sometimes she rides with Glint, her secretary. They may be having dinner, or something." They gave each other frustrated stares. "I think she's here," Hedley said, suddenly aggressive.

"You're not paid to think, son. You're paid to serve those damned papers, and I'm telling you she's not here." Momma Love raised her voice when she said this, and Reggie heard it.

"Can we search the house?" Flagg asked.

"If you have a warrant, you can search the house. If you don't have a warrant, it's time to get off my property." They both took a step back, and stopped. "I hope you're not obstructing the service of a federal subpoena," Hedley said gravely. It was supposed to have an ominous, dire ring to it, but Hedley failed miserably.

"And I hope you're not trying to threaten an old woman." Her hands were on her hips and she was ready for combat.

They surrendered and backed away. "We'll be back," Hedley promised as he opened his car door.

"I'll be here," she shouted angrily, opening the front door. She stood on the small porch and watched as they backed into the street. She waited for five minutes, and when she was certain they were gone, she went to Reggie's apartment over the garage.

DIANNE TOOK THE SUBPOENA FROM THE POLITE AND APOLOgetic gentleman without comment. She read it by the light of the dim lamp next to Ricky's bed. It contained no instructions, just a command for Mark to appear before the grand jury at 10 A. M. at the address below. There was no hint of how he was to get there; no clue as to when he might return; no warning of what could happen if he failed to comply or failed to talk. She called Reggie, but there was no answer.

I HOUGH GLINT'S APARTMENT WAS ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES away, the drive took almost an hour. She zigzagged through midtown, then raced around the interstate going nowhere in particular, and when she was certain she was not being followed, she parked on a street crowded with empty cars. She walked four blocks to his apartment.

His nine o'clock date had been abruptly canceled, and it was a date with a lot of promise. "I'm sorry," Reggie said as he opened the door and she eased through it.

"That's okay. Are you all right?" He took her bag and waved at the sofa. "Sit down." Reggie was no stranger to the apartment. She found a diet Coke in the refrigerator and sat on a bar-stool. "It was the U. S. marshal's office with a grand jury subpoena. Ten o'clock Monday morning in New Orleans." "But they didn't serve you?" "No. Momma Love ran them off." "Then you're off the hook." "Yeah, unless they find "me. There's no law against dodging subpoenas. I need to call Dianne." Clint handed her a phone, and she punched the numbers from memory. "Relax, Reggie," he said, and kissed her gently on the cheek. He picked up stray magazines and turned on the stereo. Dianne was on the phone, and Reggie managed three words before she was forced to listen. Subpoenas were everywhere. One for Reggie, one for Dianne, and one for Mark. Reggie tried to calm her. Dianne had called the detention center, but couldn't get through to Mark. Phones were unavailable at this hour, she'd been told. They talked for five minutes. Reggie, badly shaken herself, tried to convince Dianne everything was fine. She, Reggie, was in control. She promised to call her in the morning, then hung up.

"They can't take Mark," Glint said. "He's under the jurisdiction of our Juvenile Court." "I need to talk to Harry. But he's out of town." "Where is he?" "Fishing somewhere with his sons." "This is more important than fishing, Reggie. Let's find him. He can stop it, can't he?" She was thinking of a hundred things at once. "This is pretty slick, Glint. Think about it. Foltrigg waits until late Friday to serve subpoenas for Monday morning." "How can he do this?" "It's easy. He just did it. In a criminal case like this, a federal grand jury can subpoena any witness from anywhere, regardless of time and distance. And the witness must appear unless he or she can first quash the subpoena." "How do you quash one?" "You file a motion in federal court to void the subpoena." "Lemme guess, federal court in New Orleans?" "That's right. We're forced to find the trial judge early Monday morning in New Orleans and beg him to allow an emergency hearing to quash the subpoena." "It won't work, Reggie." "Of course it won't work. That's the way Foltrigg planned it." She gulped the diet Coke. "Do you have any coffee?" "Sure." He began opening drawers.

Reggie was thinking out loud". "If I can dodge the subpoena until Monday, Foltrigg will be forced to issue u nave time to quash. The problem is Mark. They're not after me, because they know they can't force me to talk." "Do you know where the damned body is, Reg-gie?" "No." "Does Mark?" "Yes." He froze for a moment, then ran water in the pot.

"We have to figure out a way to keep Mark here, Glint. We can't allow him to go to New Orleans." "Call Harry." "Harry's fishing in the mountains." "Then call Harry's wife. Find out where he's fishing in the mountains. I'll go get him if necessary." "You're right." She grabbed the phone and started calling.