John Grisham - The Client

“What else is in the agreement?” Lewis asked.

“I want your assurance that you’ll do everything in your power to compel the attendance of Roy Foltrigg before the Juvenile Court of Shelby County, Tennessee. Judge Roosevelt will want to discuss a few matters with him, and I’m sure Foltrigg will resist. If a subpoena is issued for him, I want it served by you, Mr. Trumann.”

“Gladly,” Trumann said with a nasty smile.

“We’ll do what we can,” Lewis added, a bit confused.

“Good. Go make your phone calls. Get the plane in the air. Call McThune and tell him to pick up Clint Van Hooser and take him to the hospital. Get that damned bug off her phone, because I need to talk to her.”

“No problem.” They jumped to their feet.

“We’ll meet right here in thirty minutes.”

Clint hammered away on his ancient Royal portable. His third cup of coffee shook each time he slapped the return and rattled the kitchen table. He studied his hurried chicken-scratch handwriting on the back of an Esquire, and tried to remember each provision as she’d spouted it over the phone. If he finished it, it would be, without a doubt, the sloppiest legal document ever prepared. He cursed and grabbed the Liquid Paper.

A knock on the door startled him. He ran his fingers through his unkempt and unwashed hair, and walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“FBI.”

Not so loud, he almost said. He could hear the neighbors now, gossiping about him and his predawn arrest. Probably drugs, they would say.

He cracked the door and peeked under the safety chain. Two agents with puffy eyes stood in the darkness. “We were told to come get you,” one said apologetically.

“I need some ID.”

They stuck their badges near the door. “FBI,” the first one said.

Clint opened the door wider, and waved them in. “I’ll be a few more minutes. Have a seat.”

They stood awkwardly in the center of the den as he returned to the table and the typewriter. He pecked slowly. The chicken scratch failed him, and he ad-libbed the rest. The important points were there, he hoped. She always found something to change in his typing at the office, but this would have to do. He pulled it carefully from the Royal, and placed it in a small briefcase.

“Let’s go,” he said.

At five-forty, Trumann returned alone to the table where Reggie waited. He brought two cellular phones. “Thought we might need these,” he said.

“Where’d you get them?” Reggie asked.

“They were delivered to us here.”

“By some of your men?”

“That’s right.”

“Just for fun, how many men do you have right now within a quarter of a mile of this place?”

“I don’t know. Twelve or thirteen. It’s routine, Reggie. They might be needed. We’ll send a few to protect the kid, if you’ll tell me where he is. I assume he’s alone.”

“He’s alone, and he’s fine. Did you talk to McThune?”

“Yes. They’ve already picked up Clint.”

“That was fast.”

“Well, to be honest, we’ve had men watching his apartment for twenty-four hours now. We simply woke them up, and told them to knock on his door. We found your car, Reggie, but we couldn’t find Clint’s.”

“I’m driving it.”

“That’s what I figured. Pretty slick, but we would’ve found you within twenty-four hours.”

“Don’t be so cocky, Trumann. You’ve been looking for Boyette for eight months.”

“True. How’d the kid escape?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll save it for later.”

“You could be implicated, you know.”

“Not if you guys sign our little agreement.”

“We’ll sign it, don’t worry.” One of the phones rang, and Trumann grabbed it. As he listened, K. O. Lewis hurried to the table and brought his own cellular phone. He jumped into his chair, and leaned across the table, his eyes glowing with excitement. “Talked to Washington. We’re checking the hospitals right now. Everything looks fine. Director Voyles will call here in a minute. He’ll probably want to talk to you.”

“How about the plane?”

Lewis checked his watch. “It’s leaving now, should be in Memphis by six-thirty.”

Trumann placed a hand over his phone. “This is McThune. He’s at the hospital waiting for Dr. Greenway and the administrator. They’ve made contact with Judge Roosevelt, and he’s on his way down there.”

“Have you debugged her phone?” Reggie asked.

“Yes.”

“Removed the salt shakers?”

“No salt shakers. Everything’s clean.”

“Good. Tell him to call back in twenty minutes,” she said.

Trumann mumbled into the phone and flipped a switch. Within seconds, K.O.’s phone beeped. He stuck it to his head, and broke into a large smile. “Yes sir,” he said most respectfully. “Just a second.”

He jabbed the phone at Reggie. “It’s Director Voyles. He’d like to speak with you.”

Reggie took it slowly, and said, “This is Reggie Love.” Lewis and Trumann watched like two kids waiting for ice cream.

A deep and very clear voice came from the other end. Though Denton Voyles had never been fond of the press during his forty-two years as director of the FBI, they occasionally captured a brief word or two. The voice was familiar. “Ms. Love, this is Denton Voyles. How are you?”

“Just fine. The name’s Reggie, okay.”

“Sure, Reggie. Listen, K.O. just brought me up-to-date, and I want to assure you the FBI will do anything you want to protect this kid and his family. K.O. has full authority to act for me. We’ll also protect you if you wish.”

“I’m more concerned about the child, Denton.”

Trumann and Lewis glanced at each other. She had just called him Denton, a feat no one had dared to attempt before. And she was not the least disrespectful.

“If you want, you can fax me the agreement here and I’ll sign it myself,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary, but thanks.”

“And my plane is at your disposal.”

“Thank you.”

“And I promise that we’ll see to it that Mr. Foltrigg has to face the music in Memphis. We had nothing to do with the grand jury subpoenas, you understand?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Good luck to you, Reggie. You guys work out the details. Lewis can move mountains. Call me if you need me. I’ll be at the office all day.”

“Thank you,” she said, and handed the phone back to K. O. Lewis, the mountain mover.

The assistant night manager of the grill, a young man of no more than nineteen with a peach-fuzz mustache and an attitude, walked to the table. These people had been here for an hour, and from all indications they had set up camp. There were three phones in the center of the table. Some papers were lying about. The woman wore a sweatshirt and jeans. One of the men wore a cap and no socks. “Excuse me,” he said curtly, “can I be of assistance?”

Trumann glanced over his shoulder, and snapped, “No.”

He hesitated, and took a step closer. “I’m the assistant night manager, and I demand to know what you’re doing here.”

Trumann snapped his fingers loudly, and two gentlemen reading the Sunday paper at a table not far away jumped to their feet and whipped badges from their pockets. They stuck them into the face of the assistant night manager. “FBI,” they said together as they each took an arm and led him away. He did not return. The grill was still deserted.

A phone rang, and Lewis took it. He listened carefully. Reggie opened the Sunday New Orleans paper. At the bottom of the front page was her face. The picture was taken from the bar registry, and it was next to Mark’s fourth-grade class photo. Side by side. Escaped. Disappeared. On the run. Boyette and all that. She turned to the comics.