Harry spoke slowly, and there was no doubt he knew exactly what should be done next. "Reggie has told me that she's discussed the witness protection program with you. Tell me what you think." Dianne raised her head and bit her lip. She thought for a few seconds and tried to focus on the tape recorder. "I do not want those people," she said deliberately, nodding at the recorder, "following me and my children for the rest of our lives. And I'm afraid that will happen if Mark gives you what you want." "You'll have the protection of the FBI and every necessary agency of the U. S. government." "But no one can completely guarantee our safety.
These are my children, Your Honor, and I'm a single parent. There's no one else. If I make a mistake, I could lose, well, I can't even imagine it." "I think you'll be safe, Ms. Sway. There are thousands of government witnesses now being protected." "But some have been found, haven't they?" It was a quiet question that hit hard. Neither Mc-Thune nor Lewis could deny the fact that witnesses had been lost. There was a long silence.
"Well, Ms. Sway," Harry finally said with a great deal of compassion, "what's the alternative?" "Why can't you arrest these people? Lock them up somewhere. I mean, it looks as if they're just roaming free terrorizing me and my family, and also Reggie here. What're the damned cops doing?" "It's my understanding, Ms. Sway, that one arrest was made last night. The police here are looking for the two men who burned your trailer, two thugs from New Orleans named Bono and Pirini, but they haven't found them. Is that correct, Mr. Lewis?" "Yes sir. We think they're still in the city. And I might add, Your Honor, that the U. S. attorney in New Orleans intends to indict Muldanno and Gronke early next week on charges of obstruction of justice. So they'll be in custody'very soon." "But this is the Mafia, isn't it?" Dianne asked.
Every idiot who could read the newspapers knew it was the Mafia. It was a Mafia killing by a Mafia gunman whose family had been Mafia hoods in New Orleans for four decades. Her question was so simple, yet it implied the obvious: The Mafia is an invisible army with plenty of soldiers.
Lewis did not wish to answer the question, so he waited for his honor, who likewise hoped it would simply go away. There was a long, awkward silence.
Dianne cleared her throat and spoke in a much. stronger voice. "Your Honor, when you guys can show me a way to completely protect my children, then I'll help you. But not until then." "So you want him to stay in jail," Fink blurted out.
She turned and glared at Fink, less than ten feet away. "Sir, I'd rather have him in a detention center than in a grave." Fink slumped in his chair and stared at the floor. Seconds ticked away. Harry looked at his watch, and zipped his robe. "I suggest we meet again Monday at noon. Let's take things one day at a time."
PAUL GRONKE FINISHED HIS UNEXPECTED TRIP TO MINNEapolis as the Northwest 727 lifted off the runway and started for Atlanta. From Atlanta, he hoped to catch a direct flight to New Orleans, and once home he had no plans to leave for a long time. Maybe years. Regardless of his friendship with Muldanno, Gronke was tired of this mess. He could break a thumb or a leg when necessary, and he could huff and puff and scare almost anybody. But he did not particularly enjoy stalking little kids and waving switchblades at them. He made a nice living from his clubs and beer joints, and if the Blade needed help, he'd just have to lean on his family. ' Gronke was not family. He was not Mafia. And he was not going to kill anyone for Barry Muldanno.
He'd made two phone calls that morning as soon as his flight arrived at the Memphis airport. The first call spooked him because no one answered. He then dialed a backup number for a recorded message, and again there was no answer. He walked quickly to the Northwest ticket counter and paid cash for a one-way ticket to Minneapolis. Then he found the Delta counter and paid cash for a one-way ticket to Dallas-Fort Worth. Then he bought a ticket to Chicago, on United. He roamed the concourses for an hour, watching his back and seeing nothing, and at the last second hopped on Northwest.
Bono and Pirini had strict instructions. The two phone calls meant one of two things: either the cops had them, or they were forced to pull up stakes and haul ass. Neither thought was comforting.
The flight attendant brought two beers. It was a few minutes after one, too early to start drinking, but he was edgy, and what the hell. It was 5 P. M. somewhere.
Muldanno would flip out and start throwing things. He'd run to his uncle and borrow some more thugs. They'd descend upon Memphis and start hurting people. Finesse was not Barry's long suit.
Their friendship had started in high school, in the tenth grade, their last year of formal education before they dropped out and began hustling on the streets of New Orleans. Barry's route to crime was preordained by family. Gronke's was a bit more complicated. Their first venture had been a fencing operation that had been wildly successful. The profits, however, were siphoned off by Barry and sent to the family. They peddled some drugs, ran some numbers, managed a whorehouse, all cash-rich ventures. But Gronke saw little of the cash. After ten years of this lopsided partnership, he told Barry he wanted a place of his own. Barry helped him buy a topless bar, then a porno house. Gronke made money and was able to keep it. At about this point in their careers, Barry started his killing, and Gronke established more distance between them.
But they remained friends. A month or so after Boyette disappeared, the two of them spent a long weekend at Johnny Sulari's house in Acapulco with a couple of strippers. After the girls had passed out one night, they went for a long walk on the beach. Barry was drinking tequila and talking more than usual. His name had just surfaced as a suspect. He bragged to his friend about the killing.
The landfill in Lafourche Parish was worth millions to the Sulari family. Johnny's scheme was to eventually route most of the garbage from New Orleans to it. Senator Boyette had been an unexpected enemy. His antics had attracted lots of negative publicity for the dump, and the more ink Boyette received the crazier he'd become. He'd launched federal investigations. He'd called in dozens of EPA bureaucrats who'd prepared massive volumes of studies, most of which condemned the landfill. In Washington, he'd hounded the Justice Department until it initiated its own investigation into the allegations of mob involvement. Senator Boyette became the biggest obstacle to Johnny's gold mine.
The decision had been made to hit Boyette.
Sipping from a bottle of Cuervo Gold, Barry laughed about the killing. He stalked Boyette for six months, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that the senator, who was divorced, had an affinity for young women. Cheap young women, the kind he could find in a bordello and buy for fifty bucks. His favorite place was a seedy roadhouse halfway between New Orleans and Houma, the site of the landfill. It was in oil country, and frequented by offshore roustabouts and the cute little whores they attracted. Evidently, the senator knew the owner and had a special arrangement. He the gravel lot crowded with monster pickups and Harleys. He always used the rear entrance by the kitchen.
The senator's trips to Houma became more frequent. He was raising hell in town meetings and holding press conferences every week. And he enjoyed the drives back to New Orleans with his little quickies at the roadhouse.
The hit was easy, Barry said as they sat on the beach with foamy saltwater rushing around them. He trailed Boyette for twenty miles after a rowdy landfill meeting in Houma, and waited patiently in the darkness behind the roadhouse. When Boyette emerged after his little liaison, he hit him in the head with a nightstick and quickly threw him in the backseat. He stopped a few miles down the road and pumped four bullets in his head. The body was wrapped in garbage bags and placed in the trunk.
Imagine that, Barry had marveled, a U. S. senator snatched from the darkness of a run-down bordello. He'd served for twenty-one years, chaired powerful committees, eaten at the White House, trotted around the globe searching for ways to spend taxpayers' money, had eighteen assistants and gofers working for him, and, bam!, just like that, got caught with his pants down. Barry thought it was hilarious. One of his easiest jobs, he said, as if there'd been hundreds.
A state trooper had stopped Barry for speeding ten miles outside of New Orleans. Imagine that, he said, chatting with a cop with a warm body in the trunk. He talked football and avoided a ticket. But then he panicked, and decided to hide the body in a different place.
Gronke was tempted to ask where, but thought better of it.
The case against him was shaky. The trooper's records placed Barry in the vicinity at the time of the disappearance. But with no body, there was no proof of the time of death. One of the prostitutes saw a man who resembled Barry in the shadows of the parking lot while the senator was being entertained. She was now under government protection, but not expected to make a good witness. Barry's car had been cleaned and sanitized. No blood samples, no fibers or hair. The star of the government's case was a Mafia informant, a man who'd spent twenty of his forty-two years in jail, and who was not expected to live to testify. A. 22 caliber Ruger had been seized from the apartment of one of Barry's girlfriends, but, again, with no corpse it was impossible to determine the cause of death. Barry's fingerprints were on the gun. It was a gift, said the girlfriend.
Juries are hesitant to convict without first knowing for certain that the victim is indeed dead. And Boy-ette was such an eccentric character that rumors and gossip had produced all sorts of wild speculation about his disappearance. One published report detailed his recent history of psychiatric problems, and thus had given rise to a popular theory that he'd gone nuts and run off with a teenage hooker. He had gambling debts. He drank too much. His ex-wife had sued him for fraud in the divorce. And on and on.
Boyette had plenty of reasons to disappear.
And now, an eleven-year-old kid in Memphis knew where he was buried. Gronke opened the second beer.
DOREEN HELD MARK S ARM AND WALKED HIM TO HIS ROOM.
His steps were measured and he stared at the floor in front of them as if he'd just witnessed a car bomb in a crowded marketplace.
"Are you okay, baby?" she asked, the wrinkles around her eyes bunched together with terrible concern.
He nodded and plodded along. She quickly unlocked the door, and placed him on the bottom bunk.
"Lie right here, sweetheart," she said, pulling back the covers and swinging his legs onto the bed. She knelt beside him and searched his eyes for answers. "Are you sure you're okay?" He nodded but could say nothing.
"Do you want me to call a doctor?" "No," he managed to say in a hollow voice. "I'm fine." "I think I'll get a doctor," she said. He grabbed her arm and squeezed tightly.
"I just need some rest," he mumbled. "That's all." She unlocked the door with the key and slowly eased out, her eyes never leaving Mark. When the door closed and clicked, he swung his feet to the floor.
AT THREE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, HARRY ROOSEVELT S legendary patience was gone. His weekend would be spent in the Ozarks, fishing with his two sons, and as he sat on the bench and looked at the courtroom still crowded with deadbeat dads awaiting sentencing for nonpayment, his mind kept wandering to thoughts of long sleepy mornings and cool mountain streams. At least two dozen men filled the pews of the main courtroom, and most had either current wives or current girlfriends sitting anxiously at their elbows. A few had brought their lawyers, though there was no legal relief available at this moment. All of them would soon be serving weekend sentences at the Shelby County Penal Farm for failing to pay child support.
Harry wanted to adjourn by four, but it looked doubtful. His two sons waited in the back row. Outside, the Jeep was packed, and when the gavel finally rapped for the last time, they would rush his honor from the building and whisk him away to the Buffalo River. That was the plan anyway. They were bored, but they had been there before many times.
In spite of the chaos in the front of the courtroom -clerks hauling bundles of files in and out, lawyers whispering as they waited, deputies standing by, defendants being shuffled to the bench then out the doorHarry's assembly line moved with determined efficiency. He glared at each deadbeat, scolded a bit, sometimes a quick lecture, then he signed an order and moved on to the next one.
Reggie eased into the courtroom and made her way to the clerk seated next to the bench. They whispered for a minute with Reggie pointing to a document she'd brought with her. She laughed at something that was probably not that funny, but Harry heard her and motioned her to the bench.
"Something wrong?" he asked with his hand over the microphone.
"No. Mark's fine, I guess. I need a quick favor. It's another case." Harry smiled and turned off the mike. Typical Reggie. Her cases were always the most important and needed immediate attention. "What is it?" he asked.
The clerk handed Harry the file while Reggie handed him an order. "It's another snatch-and-run by the Welfare Department," she said in a low voice. No one was listening. No one cared.
"Who's the kid?" he asked, flipping through the file.
"Ronald Allan Thomas the Third. Also known as Trip Thomas. He was taken into custody last night by Welfare and placed in a foster home. His mother hired me an hour ago." "Says here he's been abandoned and neglected." "Not true, Harry. It's a long story, but I assure you this kid has good parents and a clean home." "And you want the kid released?" "Immediately. I'll pick him up myself, and take him home to Momma Love if I have to." "And feed him lasagna." "Of course." Harry scanned the order and signed his name at the bottom. "I'll have to trust you, Reggie." "You always do. I saw Damon and Al back there. They look rather bored." Harry handed the order to the clerk, who stamped it. "So am I. When I get this riffraff cleared from my courtroom, we're going fishing." "Good luck. I'll see you Monday." "Have a nice weekend, Reggie. You'll check on Mark, won't you?" "Of course." "Try and talk some sense into his mother. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced these people must cooperate with the feds and enter the witness program. Hell, they have nothing to lose by starting over. Convince her they'll be protected." "I'll try. I'll spend some time with her this weekend. Maybe we can wrap it up Monday." "I'll see you then." Reggie winked at him, and backed away from the bench. The clerk handed her a copy of the order, and she left the courtroom.
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.
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