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 Boyette 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 door — Harry’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.
31
Thomas 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.