"Yes. Many times."
"What if all this is a big joke?"
"We can't take that chance, Mark."
He rubbed his eyes and slid his chair back. He began walking around the small room, suddenly very nervous. "So we just pack up and leave our lives behind, right? That's easy for you to say, Reggie. You're not the one who'll have the nightmares. You'll go on like nothing ever happened. You and Glint. Momma Love. Nice little law office. Lots of clients. But not us. We'll live in fear for the rest of our lives."
"I don't think so."
"But you don't know, Reggie. It's easy to sit here and say everything'!! be fine. Your neck's not on the line."
"You have no choice, Mark."
"Yes I do. I could lie."
IT WAS JUST A MOTION FOR A CONTINUANCE, NORMALLY A
rather boring and routine legal skirmish, but nothing was boring when Barry the Blade Muldanno was the defendant and Willis Upchurch was the mouthpiece. Throw in the enormous ego of the Reverend Roy Fol-trigg and the press manipulation skills of Wally Boxx, and this innocuous little hearing for a continuance took on the air of an execution. The courtroom of the Honorable James Lamond was crowded with the curious, the press, and a small army of jealous lawyers who had more important things to do but just happened to be in the neighborhood. They milled about and spoke in
grave tones while keeping anxious eyes on tne Cameras and reporters attract lawyers like blood attracts sharks.
Beyond the railing that separated the players from the spectators, Foltrigg stood in the center of a tight circle of his assistants and whispered, frowning as if they were planning an invasion. He was decked out in his Sunday best—dark three-piece suit, white shirt, red-and-blue silk tie, hair perfect, shoes shined to a glow. He faced the audience, but of course was much too preoccupied to notice anyone. Across the way, Mul-danno sat with his back to the gaggle of onlookers and pretended to ignore everyone. He was dressed in black. The ponytail was perfect and arched down to the bottom of his collar. Willis Upchurch sat on the edge of the defense table, also facing the press while engaging himself in a highly animated conversation with a paralegal. If it was humanly possible, Upchurch loved the attention more than Foltrigg.
Muldanno did not yet know of the arrest of Jack Nance eight hours earlier in Memphis. He did not know Cal Sisson had spilled his guts. He had not heard from either Bono or Pirini, and he had sent Gronke back to Memphis that morning in complete ignorance of the night's events.
Foltrigg, on the other hand, was feeling quite smug. Based on the taped conversation gathered from the salt shaker, he would obtain on Monday indictments against Muldanno and Gronke for obstruction of justice. Convictions would be easy. He had them in the bag. He had Muldanno facing five years.
But Roy didn't have the body. And trying Barry the Blade on obstruction charges would not generate anywhere near the publicity of a nasty murder trial
complete with color glossies of the decomposed corpse and pathologists' reports about bullet entries and trajectories and exits. Such a trial would last for weeks, and Roy would shine on the evening news every night. He could just see it.
He'd sent Fink back to Memphis early that morning with the grand jury subpoenas for the kid and his lawyer. That should liven things up a bit. He should have the kid talking by Monday afternoon, and maybe, with just a little luck, he'd have the remains of Boyette by Monday night. This thought had kept him at the office until three in the morning. He strutted to the clerk's desk for nothing in particular, then strutted back, glaring at Muldanno, who ignored him.
The courtroom deputy stopped in front of the bench and yelled instructions for all to sit. Court was now in session, the Honorable James Lamond presiding. Lamond appeared from a side door, and was escorted to the bench by an assistant carrying a stack of heavy files. In his early fifties, Lamond was a baby among federal judges. One of countless Reagan appointees, he was typical—all business, no smiles, cut the crap and let's get on with it. He had been the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana immediately prior to Roy Foltrigg, and he hated his successor as much as anyone. Six months after taking the job, • Foltrigg had embarked upon a speaking tour of the district in which he presented charts and graphs to Rotarians and Civitans and declared with statistical evidence that his office was now much more efficient than it had been in prior years. Indictments were up. Dope dealers were behind bars. Public officials were running scared. Crime was in trouble, and the public's interest was now being fiercely protected because he, Roy Fol-
trigg, was now the chief federal prosecutor in the district.
It was a stupid thing to do because it insulted Latnond and angered the other judges. They had little use for the reverend.
Lamond gazed at the crowded courtroom. Everyone was seated. "My goodness," he started. "I'm delighted at the interest shown here today, but honestly, it's just a hearing on a simple motion." He glared at Foltrigg, who sat in the middle of six assistants. Upchurch had a local lawyer on each side, and two paralegals sitting behind him.
"The court is ready to proceed upon the motion of the defendant, Barry Muldanno, for a continuance. The court notes that this matter is set for trial three weeks from next Monday. Mr. Upchurch, you filed the motion, so you may proceed. Please be brief."
To the surprise of everyone, Upchurch was indeed brief. He simply stated what -was common knowledge about the late Jerome Clifford, and explained to the court that he had a trial in federal court in St. Louis beginning three weeks from Monday. He was glib, relaxed, and completely at home in this strange courtroom. A continuance was necessary, he explained, with remarkable efficiency, because he needed time to prepare a defense for what would undoubtedly be a long trial. He finished in ten minutes.
"How much time do you need?" Lamond asked.
"Your Honor, I have a busy trial calendar, and I'll be happy to show it to you. In all fairness, six months would be a reasonable delay."
"Thank you. Anything else?"
"No sir. Thank you, Your Honor." Upchurch took his seat as Foltrigg was leaving his and heading for
the podium directly in front of the bench. He glanced at his notes and was about to speak, when Lamond beat him to it.
"Mr. Foltrigg, surely you don't deny that the defense is entitled to more time, in light of the circumstances?"
"No, Your Honor, I don't deny this. But I think six months is entirely too much time."
"So how much would you suggest?"
"A month or two. You see, Your Honor, I—"
"I'm not going to sit up here and listen to a haggle over two months or six or three or four, Mr. Foltrigg. If you concede the defendant is entitled to a delay, then I'll take this matter under advisement and set this case for trial whenever my calendar will allow."
Lamond knew Foltrigg needed a delay worse than Muldanno. He just couldn't ask for it. Justice must always be on the attack. Prosecutors are incapable of asking for more time.
"Well, yes, Your Honor," Foltrigg said loudly. "But it's our position that needless delays should be avoided. This matter has dragged on long enough."
"Are you suggesting this court is dragging its feet, Mr. Foltrigg?"
"No, Your Honor, but the defendant is. He's filed every frivolous motion known to American jurisprudence to stall this prosecution. He's tried every tactic, every—"
"Mr. Foltrigg. Mr. Clifford is dead. He can't file any more motions. And now the defendant has a new lawyer, who, as I see it, has filed only one motion."
Foltrigg looked at his notes and started a slow burn. He had not expected to prevail in this little mat-
ter, but he certainly hadn't expected to get kicked in the teeth.
"Do you have anything relevant to say?" his honor asked as if Foltrigg had yet to say anything of substance.
He grabbed his legal pad and stormed back to his seat. A rather pitiful performance. He should've sent an underling.
"Anything else, Mr. Upchurch?" Larnond asked.
"No sir."
"Very well. Thanks to all of you for your interest in this matter. Sorry it has been so brief. Maybe we'll do more next time. An order for a new trial setting will be forthcoming."
Lamond stood just minutes after he'd sat, and was gone. The reporters filed out, and of course were followed by Foltrigg and Upchurch, who walked to opposite ends of the hallway and held impromptu press conferences.
THOUGH SLICK MOELLER HAD REPORTED JAILHOUSE RIOTS,
rapes, and beatings, and though he'd stood on the safe side of the doors and bars, he'd never actually, physically, been inside a jail cell. And though this thought was heavy on his mind, he kept his cool and projected the aura of the surefooted reporter and confident believer in the First Amendment. He had a lawyer on each side, high-paid studs from a hundred-man firm that had represented the Memphis Press for decades, and they had assured him a dozen times in the past two hours that the Constitution of the United States of America was his friend and on this day would be his shield. Slick wore jeans, a safari jacket, and hiking boots, very much the weather-beaten reporter.
Harry was not impressed with the aura being projected by this weasel. Nor was he impressed with the silk-stocking, blue-blooded Republican mouthpieces who'd never before darkened the doors to his courtroom. Harry was upset. He sat on his bench and read for the tenth time Slick's morning story. He also reviewed applicable First Amendment cases dealing with
reporters and theirconfidential sources. And he took his time so Slick would sweat.
The doors were locked. The bailiff, Slick's friend Grinder, stood quite nervously by the bench. Following the judge's order, two uniformed deputies sat di-recdy behind Slick and his lawyers, and seemed poised and ready for action. This bothered Slick and his lawyers, but they tried not to show it.
The same court reporter with an even shorter skirt filed her nails and waited for the words to start flowing. The same grouchy old woman sat at her table and flipped through the National Enquirer. They waited and waited. It was almost twelve-thirty. As usual, the docket was packed and things were behind schedule. Marcia had a club sandwich waiting for Harry between hearings. The Sway hearing was next.
He leaned forward on his elbows and glared down at Slick, who at a hundred and thirty pounds weighed probably a third of what Harry did. "On the record," he barked at the stenographer, and she started pecking away.
Cool as he was, Slick jerked with these first words and sat upright.
"Mr. Moeller, I've brought you here under summons because you've violated a section of the Tennessee Code regarding the confidentiality of my proceedings. This is a very grave matter because we're dealing with the safety and well-being of a small child. Unfortunately, the law does not provide criminal penalties, only contempt."
He removed his reading glasses and began rubbing them with a handkerchief. "Now, Mr. Moeller," he said like a frustrated grandfather, "as upset as I am with you and your story, I am much more troubled by the
fact that someone leaked this information to you. Someone who was in this courtroom, during the hearing yesterday. Your source troubles me greatly."
Grinder leaned against the wall and pressed his calves against it to keep his knees from shaking. He would not look at Slick. His first heart attack had been only six years earlier, and if he didn't control himself, this might be the big one.
"Please sit in the witness chair, Mr. Moeller," Harry instructed with a sweep of the hand. "Be my guest."
Slick was sworn by the old grouch. He placed one hiking boot on one knee, and looked at his attorneys for reassurance. They were not looking at him. Grinder studied the ceiling tiles.
"You are under oath, Mr. Moeller," Harry reminded him just seconds after he'd been sworn.
"Yes sir," he uttered, and feebly attempted to smile at this huge man who was sitting high above him and peering down over the railing of the bench.
"Did you in fact write the story in today's paper with your name on it?"
"Yes sir."
"Did you write it by yourself, or did someone assist you?"
"Well, Your Honor, I wrote every word, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I mean. Now, in the fourth paragraph of this story, you write, and I quote, 'Mark Sway refused to answer questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette.' End quote. Did you write that, Mr. Moeller?"
"Yes sir."
day when the child testified?"
"No sir."
"Were you in this building?"
"Uh, yes sir, I was. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Be quiet, Mr. Moeller. I'll ask the questions, and you answer them. Do you understand the relationship here?"
"Yes sir." Slick pleaded with his eyes to his lawyers, but both were deep into reading at this moment. He felt alone.
"So you weren't present. Now, Mr. Moeller, how did you learn that the child refused to answer my questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette?"
"I had a source."
Grinder had never thought of himself as a source. He was just a low-paid courtroom bailiff with a uniform and a gun, and bills to pay. He was about to be sued by Sears for his wife's credit card. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead but was afraid to move.
"A source," Harry repeated, mocking Slick. "Of course you had a source, Mr. Moeller. I assumed this. You weren't here. Someone told you. This means you had a source. Now, who was your source?"
The lawyer with the grayest hair quickly stood to speak. He was dressed in standard big-firm attire— charcoal suit, white button-down, red tie but with a daring yellow stripe on it, and black shoes. His name was Alliphant. He was a partner who normally avoided courtrooms. "Your Honor, if I may."
Harry grimaced, and he slowly turned from the witness. His mouth was open as if he were shocked at
this daring interruption. He scowled at Alliphant, wno repeated himself. "If I may, Your Honor."
Harry let him hang there for an eternity, then said, "You haven't been in my courtroom before, have you, Mr. Alliphant?"
"No sir," he answered, still standing.
"I didn't think so. Not one of your usual hangouts. How many lawyers are in your firm, Mr. Alliphant?"
"A hundred and seven, at last count."
Harry whistled and shook his head. "That's a buncha lawyers. Do any of them practice in Juvenile Court?"
"Well, I'm sure some do, Your Honor."
"Which ones?"
Alliphant stuck one hand in one pocket while running a loose finger along the edge of his legal pad. He did not belong here. His legal world was one of boardrooms and thick documents, of fat retainers and fancy lunches. He was rich because he billed three hundred dollars an hour and had thirty partners doing the same. His firm prospered because it paid seventy associates fifty thousand a year and expected them to bill five times that. He was here ostensibly because he was chief counsel for the paper, but actually because no one in the firm's litigation section could make the hearing on two hours' notice.
Harry despised him, his firm, and their ilk. He did not trust the corporate types who came down from the tall buildings to mingle with the lower class only when necessary. They were arrogant and afraid to get their hands dirty.
"Sit down, Mr. Alliphant," he said, pointing. "You do not stand in my courtroom. Sit."
"Now what are you trying to say, Mr. Alliphant?"
"Well, Your Honor, we object to these questions, and we object to the court's interrogation of Mr. Moeller on the grounds that his story is protected free speech under the First Amendment of the Constitution. Now—"
"Mr. Alliphant, have you read the applicable code section dealing with closed hearings in juvenile matters? Surely you have."
"Yes sir, I have. And, frankly, Your Honor, I have some real problems with this section."
"Oh you do? Go on."
"Yes sir. It's my opinion that this code section is unconstitutional as written. I have some cases here from other—"
"Unconstitutional?" Harry asked with raised eyebrows.
"Yes sir," Alliphant answered firmly.
"Do you know who wrote the code section, Mr. Alliphant?"
Alliphant turned to his associate as if he knew everything. But he shook his head.
"I -wrote 'it, Mr. Alliphant," Harry said loudly. "Me. Moi. Yours truly. And if you knew anything about juvenile law in this state, you would know that I am the expert because I wrote the law. Now, what can you say about that?"
Slick slid down in his chair. He'd covered a thousand trials. He'd seen lawyers hammered by angry judges, and he knew their clients usually suffered.
"I contend it's unconstitutional, Your Honor," Alliphant said gallantly.
"And the last thing I intend to do, Mr. Alliphant,
is to get into a long, hot-air debate with you about tne First Amendment. If you don't like the law, then take it up on appeal and get it changed. I honestly don't care. But right now, while I'm missing lunch, I want your client to answer the question." He turned back to Slick, who was waiting in terror. "Now, Mr. Moeller, who was your source?"
Grinder was about to vomit. He stuck his thumbs under his belt and pressed against his stomach. By reputation, Slick was a man of his word. He always protected his sources.
"I cannot reveal my source," Slick said in an effort at great drama, the martyr willing to face death. Grinder took a deep breath. Such sweet words.
Harry immediately motioned for the two deputies. "I find you in contempt, Mr. Moeller, and order you to jail." The deputies stood beside Slick, who looked around wildly for help.
"Your Honor," Alliphant said, standing without thinking. "We object to this! You cannot—"
Harry ignored Alliphant. He spoke to the deputies. "Take him to the city jail. No special treatment. No favors. I'll bring him back Monday for another try."
They yanked Slick up and handcuffed him. "Do something!" he yelled at Alliphant, who was saying, "This is protected speech, Your Honor. You can't do this."
"I'm doing it, Mr. Alliphant," Harry yelled. "And if you don't sit down, you'll be in the same cell with your client."
Alliphant dropped into his chair.
They dragged Slick to the door, and as they opened it, Harry had one final thing to say. "Mr.
Moeller, if I read one word in your paper written by you while in jail, I'll let you sit there for a month before I bring you back. You understand."
Slick couldn't speak. "We'll appeal, Slick," Alli-phant promised as they shoved him through and closed the door. "We'll appeal."
DIANNE SWAY SAT IN A HEAVY WOOD CHAIR, HOLDING HER
oldest son and watching the sunlight filter through the dusty, broken blinds of Witness Room B. The tears were gone and words had failed them.
After five days and four nights of involuntary confinement in the psychiatric ward, she at first had been happy to leave it. But happiness these days came in tiny spurts, and she now longed to return to Ricky's bed. Now that she'd seen Mark, and held him and cried with him, she knew he was safe. Under the circumstances, that was all a mother could ask.
She didn't trust her instincts or judgment. Five days in a cave takes away any sense of reality. The endless series of shocks had left her drained and stunned. The drugs—pills to sleep and pills to wake up and pills to get through it—deadened the mind so that her life was a series of snapshots thrown on the table one at a time. The brain worked, but in slow motion.
"They want us to go to Portland," she said, rubbing his arm.
"Reggie talked to you about it."
"Yes, we had a long talk yesterday. There's a good place for Ricky out there, and we can start over."
"Sounds good, but it scares me."
"Scares me too, Mark. I don't want to live the next forty years looking over my shoulder. I read a
story one time in some magazine about a Mafia informant who helped the FBI and they agreed to hide him. Just like they want us to do. I think it took two years before the Mafia found him and blew him up in his car."
"I think I saw the movie."
"I can't live like that, Mark."
"Can we get another trailer?"
"I think so. I talked to Mr. Tucker this morning, and he says he had the trailer covered with plenty of insurance. He said he had another one for us. And I still have my job. In fact, they delivered my paycheck to the hospital this morning."
Mark smiled at the thought of returning to the trailer park and hanging out with the kids. He even missed school.
"These people are deadly, Mark."
"I know. I've met them."
She thought for a second, then asked, "You what?"
"I guess it's something else I forgot to tell you."
"I'd like to hear it."
"It happened a couple of days ago at the hospital. I don't know which day. They're all running together." He took a deep breath. He told her about his encounter with the man and the switchblade and their family portrait. Normally, she, or any mother, would have been shocked. But for Dianne, it was just another event in this horrible week.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.
"Because I didn't want to worry you."
"You know, we might not be in this trouble if you'd told me everything up front."
"Don't fuss at me, Mom. I can't take it."
She couldn't say it either, so she stopped it. Reggie knocked on the door and it opened. "We need to go," she said. "The judge is waiting."
They followed her through the hall and around a corner. Two deputies trailed behind. "Are you nervous?" Dianne whispered.
"No. It's no big deal, Mom."
Harry was munching on the sandwich and flipping through the file when they entered the courtroom. Fink, Ord, and Baxter McLemore, the Juvenile Court prosecutor-of-the-day, were all seated together at their table, all quiet and subdued, all bored and waiting for what would undoubtedly be a quick appearance by the kid. Fink and Ord were captivated by the court reporter's legs and skirt. Her figure was obscene—tiny waist, healthy breasts, slender legs. She was the only redeeming element in this rinky-dink courtroom, and Fink had to admit to himself that he'd thought about her on the flight to New Orleans yesterday. And he'd thought about her all the way back to Memphis. She was not disappointing him. The skirt was at mid-thigh and inching upward.
Harry looked at Dianne and gave his best smile. His large teeth were perfect and his eyes were warm. "Hello, Ms. Sway," he said sweetly. She nodded and tried to smile.
"It is a pleasure meeting you, and I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances."
"Thank you, Your Honor," she said softly to the man who'd ordered her son to jail.
Harry looked at Fink* with contempt. "I trust everyone has read this morning's Memphis Press. It has a fascinating story about our proceedings yesterday, and the man who •wrote the story is now in jail. I intend to
investigate this matter further, and 1 am confident 1 will find the leak."
Grinder, by the door, was suddenly ill again.
"And when I find it, I intend to fix it with a contempt order. So, ladies and gentlemen, keep your mouths shut. Not a word to anyone." He took the file. "Now, Mr. Fink, where's Mr. Foltrigg?"
Sitting firmly in place, Fink answered, "He's in New Orleans, Your Honor. I have a copy of the court order you requested."
"Fine. I'll take your word for it. Madam Clerk, swear the witness."
Madam Clerk threw her hand in the air, and barked at Mark, "Raise your right hand." Mark stood awkwardly, and was sworn.
"You can remain in your seat," Harry said. Reggie was on his right, Dianne on the left.
"Mark, I'm going to ask you some questions, okay?"
"Yes sir."
"Prior to his death, did Mr. Clifford say anything to you about a Mr. Barry Muldanno?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
"Did Mr. Clifford mention the name of Boyd Boyette?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
"Did Mr. Clifford say anything about the murder of Boyd Boyette?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
"Did Mr. Clifford say anything about the present location of the body of Boyd Boyette?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
Harry paused and looked at his notes. Dianne had
stopped breathing and was staring blankly at Mark. "It's okay, Mom," he whispered to her.
"Your Honor," he said in a strong, confident voice. "I want you to understand that I'm not answering for the same reasons I gave yesterday. I'm just scared, that's all."
Harry nodded but gave no expression. He was neither angry nor pleased. "Mr. Bailiff, take Mark back to the witness room, and keep him there until we finish. He can talk to his mother before he's transported to the detention center."
Grinder's knees were putty, but he managed to lead Mark from the courtroom.
Harry unzipped his robe. "Let's go off the record. Madam Clerk, you and Ms. Gregg can go to lunch." It was not an offer, but a demand. Harry wanted fewer ears in the courtroom.
Ms. Gregg swung her legs toward Fink, and his heart stopped. He and Ord watched with their mouths open as she stood, took her purse, and pranced from the courtroom.
"Get the FBI, Mr. Fink," Harry instructed.
McThune and a weary K. O. Lewis were fetched and took seats behind Ord. Lewis was a busy man with a thousand important items stacked on his desk in Washington, and he'd asked himself a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours why he'd come to Memphis. Of course, Director Voyles wanted him here, which clarified his priorities immensely.
"Mr. Fink, you indicated before the hearing there is an urgent matter that I should know about."
"Yes sir. Mr. Lewis would like to address it."
"Mr. Lewis. Please be brief."
"Yes, Your Honor. We've had Barry Muldanno
under surveillance for several months, and yesterday we obtained by electronic means a conversation between Muldanno and Paul Gronke. It took place in a bar in the French Quarter, and I think you need to hear it."
"You have the tape?"
"Yes sir."
"Then let it roll." Harry was suddenly unconcerned with time.
McThune quickly assembled a tape player and speaker on the desk in front of Fink, and Lewis inserted a micro-cassette. "The first voice you'll hear is that of Muldanno," he explained like a chemist preparing a demonstration. "Then Gronke."
The courtroom was still and quiet as the scratchy but very clear voices squawked from the speaker. The entire conversation was captured; the suggestion by Muldanno of hitting the kid, and Gronke's doubts about getting to him; the idea of hitting the kid's mother or brother, and Gronke's protests of killing innocent people; Muldanno's talk of killing his lawyer, and the laughter about it doing wonders for the legal profession; the boasting of Gronke about taking care of the trailer; and finally the plans to bug the lawyer's phones that night.
It was chilling. Fink and Ord had heard it ten times already, so they were noncommittal. Reggie closed her eyes when the taking of her life was so nonchalantly bantered about. Dianne was rigid with fear. Harry stared at the speaker as if he could see their faces, and when the tape was finished and Lewis punched the button, he simply said, "Play it again."
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