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,” Foltrigg 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 Fink. “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.”
“I’ll 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.