John Grisham - The Client

He took the money and crammed it in the pocket of his jeans. “Yes ma’am. We’re on the quietest floor. The babies are in the basement and it’s a circus down there.”

“Be careful.”

He closed the door behind him. She waited, then took the bottle of Valium from her purse. Greenway had sent it.

Mark ate four doughnuts during “Donahue” and watched his mother try to nap on the bed. He kissed her on the forehead, and told her he needed to roam around a bit. She told him not to leave the hospital.

He used the stairs again because he figured Hardy and the FBI and the rest of the gang might be hanging around somewhere downstairs waiting for him to happen by.

Like most big-city charity hospitals, St. Peter’s had been built over time whenever funds could be squeezed, with little thought of architectural symmetry. It was a sprawling and bewildering configuration of additions and wings, with a maze of hallways and corridors and mezzanines trying desperately to connect everything. Elevators and escalators had been added wherever they would fit. At some point in history, someone had realized the difficulty of moving from one point to another without getting hopelessly lost, and a dazzling array of color-coded signs had been implemented for the orderly flow of traffic. Then more wings were added. The signs became obsolete, but the hospital failed to remove them. Now they only added to the confusion.

Mark darted through now-familiar territory and exited the hospital through a small lobby on Monroe Avenue. He’d studied a map of downtown in the front of the phone book, and he knew Gill Teal’s office was within easy walking distance. It was on the third floor of a building four blocks away. He moved quickly. It was Tuesday, a school day, and he wanted to avoid truant officers. He was the only kid on the street, and he knew he was out of place.

A new strategy was developing. What was wrong, he asked himself as he stared at the sidewalk and avoided eye contact with the pedestrians passing by, with making an anonymous phone call to the cops or FBI and telling them exactly where the body was? The secret would no longer belong only to him. If Romey wasn’t lying, then the body would be found and the killer would go to jail.

There were risks. His phone call to 911 yesterday had been a disaster. Anybody on the other end of the phone would know he was just a kid. The FBI would record him and analyze his voice. The Mafia wasn’t stupid.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

He turned on Third Street, and darted into the Sterick Building. It was old and very tall. The lobby was tile and marble. He entered the elevator with a crowd of others, and punched the button for the third floor. Four other buttons were pushed by people wearing nice clothes and carrying briefcases. They chatted quietly, in the normal hushed tones of elevator talk.

His stop was first. He stepped into a small lobby with hallways running left, right, and straight ahead. He went left, and roamed about innocently, trying to appear calm, as if lawyer shopping were a chore he’d done many times. There were plenty of lawyers in the building. Their names were etched on distinguished bronze plates screwed into the doors, and some doors were covered with rather long and intimidating names with lots of initials followed by periods. J. Winston Buckner. F. MacDonald Durston. I. Hempstead Crawford. The more names Mark read, the more he longed for plain old Gill Teal.

He found Mr. Teal’s door at the end of the hall, and there was no bronze plate. The words GILL TEAL — THE PEOPLE’S LAWYER were painted in bold black letters from the top of the door to the bottom. Three people waited in the hall beside it.

Mark swallowed, and entered the office. It was packed. The small waiting room was filled with sad people suffering from all sorts of injuries and wounds. Crutches were everywhere. Two people sat in wheelchairs. There were no empty seats, and one poor man in a neck brace sat on the cluttered coffee table, his head wobbling around like a newborn’s. A lady with a dirty cast on her foot cried softly. A small girl with a horribly burned face clung to her mother. War could not have been more pitiful. It was worse than the emergency room at St. Peter’s.

Mr. Teal certainly had been busy rounding up clients. Mark decided to leave, when someone called out rudely, “What do you want?”

It was a large lady behind the receptionist’s window. “You, kid, you want something?” Her voice boomed around the room, but no one noticed. The suffering continued unabated. He stepped to the window and looked at the scowling, ugly face.

“I’d like to see Mr. Teal,” he said softly, looking around.

“Oh you would. Do you have an appointment?” She picked a clipboard and studied it.

“No ma’am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Mark Sway. It’s a very private matter.”

“I’m sure it is.” She glared at him from head to toe. “What type of injury is it?”

He thought about the Exxon truck and how it had excited Mr. Teal, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off. “I, uh, I don’t have an injury.”

“Well, you’re in the wrong place. Why do you need a lawyer?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Look, kid, you see these people? They’ve all got appointments to see Mr. Teal. He’s a very busy man, and he only takes cases involving death or injuries.”

“Okay.” Mark was already retreating and thinking about the minefield of canes and crutches behind him.

“Now please go bother someone else.”

“Sure. And if I get hit by a truck or something, I’ll come back to see you.” He walked through the carnage, and made a quick exit.

He took the stairs down and explored the second floor. More lawyers. On one door he counted twenty-two bronze names. Lawyers on top of lawyers. Surely one of these guys could help him. He passed a few of them in the hall. They were too busy to notice.

A security guard suddenly appeared and walked slowly toward him. Mark glanced at the next door. The words REGGIE LOVE — LAWYER were painted on it in small letters, and he casually turned the knob and stepped inside. The small reception area was quiet and empty. Not a single client was waiting. Two chairs and a sofa sat around a glass table. The magazines were arranged neatly. Soft music came from above. A pretty rug covered the hardwood floor. A young man with a tie but no coat stood from his desk behind some potted trees and walked a few steps forward. “May I help you?” he asked quite pleasantly.

“Yes. I need to see a lawyer.”

“You’re a bit young to need a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m having some problems. Are you Reggie Love?”

“No. Reggie’s in the back. I’m her secretary. What’s your name?”

He was her secretary. Reggie was a she. The secretary was a he. “Uh, Mark Sway. You’re a secretary?”

“And a paralegal, among other things. Why aren’t you in school?” A nameplate on the desk identified him as Clint Van Hooser.

“So you’re not a lawyer?”

“No. Reggie’s the lawyer.”

“Then I need to speak with Reggie.”

“She’s busy right now. You can have a seat.” He waved at the sofa.

“How long will it be?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know.” The young man was amused by this kid needing a lawyer. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Maybe she can see you for a minute.”

“It’s very important.”

The kid was nervous and sincere. His eyes glanced at the door as if someone had followed him there. “Are you in trouble, Mark?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“What type of trouble? You need to tell me a little about it, or Reggie won’t talk to you.”

“I’m supposed to talk to the FBI at noon, and I think I need a lawyer.”