Chapter 8

JVAREN CHECKED ON MARK THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, and brought him orange juice around eight. He was alone in the small waiting room. She woke him gently.

In spite of his many problems at the moment, he was falling hopelessly in love with this beautiful nurse. He sipped the juice and looked into her sparkling brown eyes. She patted the blanket covering his legs.

"How old are you?" he asked.

She smiled even wider. "Twenty-four. Thirteen years older than you. Why do you ask?" "Just a habit. Are you married?" "No." She gently removed the blanket and began folding it. "How was the sofa?" Mark stood, stretched, and watched her. "Better than that bed Morn had to sleep on. Did you work all night?" "From eight to eight. We're doing twelve-hour shifts, four days a week. Come with me. Dr. Greenway is in the room and wants to see you." She took his hand, which helped immensely, and they walked to Ricky's room. Karen left and closed the door behind her.

Dianne looked tired. She stood at the foot of Ricky's bed with an unlit cigarette in her trembling hand. Mark stood next to her, and she put her arm on his shoulder. They watched as Greenway rubbed Ricky's forehead and spoke to him. His eyes were closed and he was not responding.

"He doesn't hear you, Doctor," Dianne said finally. It was difficult to listen to Greenway chat away in baby talk. He ignored her. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Mark smelled fresh soap and noticed her hair was wet. She "had changed clothes. But there was no makeup and her face was different.

Greenway stood straight. "A most severe case," he said almost to himself while staring at the closed eyes.

"What's next?" she asked.

"We wait. His vital signs are stable, so there's no physical danger. He'll come around, and when he does, it's imperative that you be in this room." Greenway was looking at them now, rubbing his beard, deep in thought. "He must see his mother when he opens his eyes, do you, understand this?" "I'm not leaving." "You, Mark, can come and go a bit, but it's best if you stay here as much as possible too." Mark nodded his head. The thought of spending another minute in the room was painful.

"The first moments can be crucial. He'll be frightened when he looks around. He needs to see and feel his mother. Hold him and reassure him. Call the nurse immediately. I'll leave instructions. He'll be very hungry, so we'll try and get some food in him. The nurse u remove trie iv, so ne can waiK around tne room. But the important thing is to hold him." "When do you-" "I don't know. Probably today or tomorrow. There's no way to predict." "Have you seen cases like this before?" Greenway looked at Ricky, and decided to go for the truth. He shook his head. "Not quite this bad. He's almost comatose, which is a bit unusual. Normally, after a period of good rest, they'll be awake and eating." He almost managed a smile. "But, I'm not concerned. Ricky will be all right. It'll just take some time." Ricky seemed to hear this. He grunted and stretched, but did not open his eyes. They watched intently, hoping for a mumble or word. Though Mark preferred that he remain silent about the shooting until they discussed it alone, he desperately wanted his little brother to wake up and start talking about other matters. He was tired of looking at him curled up on the pillow, sucking that damned thumb.

Greenway reached into his bag and produced a newspaper. It was the Memphis Press, the morning paper. He laid it on the bed, and handed Dianne a card. "My office is in the building next door. Here's the phone number, just in case. Remember, the moment he wakes up, call the nurses' station, and they'll call me immediately. Okay?" Dianne took the card and nodded. Greenway unfolded the newspaper on Ricky's bed in front of them. "Have you seen this?" "No," she answered.

At the bottom of the front page was a headline about Romey. NEW ORLEANS LAWYER COMMITS SUICIDE IN NORTH MEMPHIS. Under the headline to the right was a big photo of W. Jerome Llitiora, ana 10 me ",iv w~o -~ smaller headline-FLAMBOYANT CRIMINAL LAWYER WITH SUSPECTED MOB TIES. The word "mob" jumped at Mark. He stared at Romey's face, and suddenly needed to vomit.

Greenway leaned forward and lowered his voice. "It seems as though Mr. Clifford was a rather well-known lawyer in New Orleans. He was involved in the Senator Boyette case. Apparently, he was the attorney for the man charged with the murder. Have you kept up with it?" Dianne actually put the unlit cigarette in her mouth. She shook her head no.

"Well, it's a big case. The first U. S. senator to be murdered in office. You can read this after I leave. There are police and FBI downstairs. They were waiting when I arrived an hour ago." Mark grabbed the railing on the foot of the bed. "They want to talk to Mark, and of course they want you present." "Why?" she asked.

Greenway looked at his watch. "The Boyette case is complicated. I think you'll understand more after you read the story here. I told them you and Mark could not speak with them until I say so. Is this all right?" "Yes," Mark blurted out. "I don't want to talk to them." Dianne and Greenway looked at him. "I may end up like Ricky if these cops keep bugging me." For some reason, Mark knew the police would return with a lot of questions. They were not finished with him. But the photo on the front page of the paper and the mention of the FBI suddenly sent chills over him, and he needed to sit down.

"Keep them away for now," Dianne said to Greenway.

"Ihey asked it they could see you at nine, and l said no. But they won't go away." He looked at his watch again. "I'll be here at noon. Perhaps we should talk to them then." "Whatever you think," she said.

"Very well. I'll put them off until twelve. My office has called your employer and the school. Try not to worry about that. Just stay by this bed until I return." He almost smiled as he closed the door behind him.

Dianne ran to the bathroom and lit her cigarette. Mark punched the remote control by Ricky's bed until the television was on and he found the local news. Nothing but -weather and sports.

DIANNE FINISHED THE STORY ABOUT MR. CLIFFORD AND placed the paper on the floor under the foldaway bed. Mark watched anxiously.

"His client killed a United States senator," she said in awe.

No kidding. There were about to be some tough questions, and Mark was suddenly hungry. It was past nine. Ricky hadn't moved. The nurses had forgotten about them. Greenway seemed like ancient history. The FBI was waiting somewhere in the darkness. The room was growing smaller by the minute, and the cheap cot on which he was sitting was ruining his back.

"I wonder why he did that," he said because he could think of nothing else to say.

"It says Jerome Clifford had ties with the New Orleans mob, and that his client is widely thought to be a member." He'd seen The Godfather on cable. In fact, he'd even seen the first sequel to The Godfather, and he knew all about the mob. Scenes irom uic fore his eyes, and the pains in his stomach grew sharper.

His heart pounded. "I'm hungry, Mom. Are you hungry?" "Why didn't you tell me the truth, Mark?" "Because the cop was in the trailer, and it wasn't a good time to talk. I'm sorry, Mom. I promise I'm sorry. I planned to tell you as soon as we were alone, I promise." She rubbed her temples and looked so sad. "You never lie to me, Mark." Never say never. "Can we talk about this later, Mom? I'm really hungry. Give me a couple of bucks and I'll run down to the cafeteria and get some doughnuts. I'd love a doughnut. I'll get you some coffee." He was on his feet waiting for the money.

Fortunately, she was not in the mood for a serious talk about truthfulness and such. The Dalmane lingered and her thoughts were slow. Her head pounded. She opened her purse and gave him a five-dollar bill. "Where's the cafeteria?" "Basement. Madison Wing. I've been there twice." "Why am I not surprised? I suppose you've been all over this place." 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 Craw-ford. 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, [iliu UI1C1C WdS UU UIUI1Z. C pidlC. J. I1C WOrUb L. 1LL ItAL -  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 wheel-chairs. 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 couidn t pun u 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 mine field 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 Glint 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." This was good enough. "Have a seat. It'll be a minute." Mark eased into a chair, and as soon as Clint disappeared he opened a yellow phone book and flipped through the pages until he found the attorneys. There was Gill Teal again in his full-page spread. Pages and pages of huge ads, all crying out for injured people.

Photos of busy and important men and women holding thick law books or sitting behind wide desks or listening intently to the telephones stuck in their ears. Then half-page ones, then quarter. Reggie Love was not there. What kind of lawyer was she?

Reggie Love was one of thousands in the Memphis Yellow Pages. She couldn't be much of a lawyer if the Yellow Pages thought so little of her, and the thought of racing from the office crossed his mind. But then there was Gill Teal, the one for real, the people's lawyer, the star of the Yellow Pages who also had enough fame to get himself on television, and just look at his office down the hall. No, he quickly decided, he'd take his chances with Reggie Love. Maybe she needed clients. Maybe she had more time to help him. The idea of a woman lawyer suddenly appealed to him because he'd seen one on "L. A. Law" once and she had ripped up some cops pretty good. He closed the book and returned it carefully to the magazine rack beside the chair. The office was cool and pretty. There were no voices.

CLINT CLOSED THE DOOR BEHIND HIM AND EASED ACROSS the Persian rug to her desk. Reggie Love was on the phone, listening, more than talking. Clint placed three phone messages before her, and gave the standard hand signal to indicate someone was waiting in the reception area. He sat on the corner of the desk, straightening a paper clip and watching her.

There was no leather in the office. The walls were papered with light floral shades of rose and pink. A spotless desk of glass and chrome covered one corner of the rug. The chairs were sleek and upholstered with a burgundy rabric. inis, witnout a doubt, was trie orrice of a woman. A very neat woman.

Reggie Love was fifty-two years old, and had been practicing law for less than five years. She was of medium build with very short, very gray hair that fell in bangs almost to the top of her perfectly round, black-framed glasses. The eyes were green, and they glowed at Glint as if something funny had been said. Then she rolled them and shook her head. "Good-bye, Sam," she finally said, and hung up.

"Got a new client for you," Clint said with a smile.

"I don't need new clients,' Clint. I need clients who can pay. What's his name?" "Mark Sway. He's just a kid, ten maybe twelve years old. And he says he's supposed to meet with the FBI at noon. Says he needs a lawyer." "He's alone?" "Yeah." "How'd he find us?" "I have no idea. I'm just the secretary, remember. You'll have to ask some questions yourself." Reggie stood and walked around the desk. "Show him in. And rescue me in fifteen minutes, okay. I've got a busy morning." "FOLLOW ME, MARK," CLINT SAID, AND MARK FOLLOWED him through a narrow door and down a hallway. Her office door was covered with stained glass, and a small brass plate again said REGGIE LOVE-LAWYER. Clint opened the door, and motioned for Mark to enter.

The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. It was gray and shorter than his; very short above the ears and in the back, a bit thicker on top with bangs halfway down. He'd never seen a woman with gray hair worn so short. She wasn't old and she wasn't young.

She smiled appropriately as they met at the door. "Mark, I'm Reggie Love." She offered her hand, he took it reluctantly, and she squeezed hard and shook firm. Shaking hands with women was not something he did often. She was neither tall nor short, thin nor heavy. Her dress was straight and black and she wore black and gold bracelets on both wrists. They rattled.

"Nice to meet you," he said weakly as they shook. She was already leading him to a corner of the office, where two soft chairs faced a table with picture books on it.

"Have a seat," she said. "I have only a minute." Mark sat on the edge of his seat, and was suddenly terrified. He'd lied to his mother. He'd lied to the police. He'd lied to Dr. Greenway. He was about to lie to the FBI. Romey had been dead less than a day, and he was lying right and left to everyone who asked. Tomorrow he would certainly lie to the next person. Maybe it was time to come clean for a change. Sometimes it was frightening to tell the truth, but he usually felt better afterward. But the thought of unloading all this baggage on a stranger made his blood run cold.

"Would you like something to drink?" "No ma'am." She crossed her legs. "Mark Sway, right? Please do not call me ma'am, all right? My name is not Ms. Love or any of that, my name is Reggie. I'm old enough to be your grandmother, but you call me Reggie, okay?" "Okay." "How old are you, Mark? Tell me a. little about yourself." "I'm eleven. I'm in the fifth grade at Willow Road." "Why aren't you in school this morning?" "It's a long story." "I see. And you're here because of this long story?" "Yes." "Do you want to tell me this long story?" "I think so." "Glint said you're supposed to meet with the FBI at noon. Is this true?" "Yes. They want to ask me some questions at the hospital." She picked up a legal pad from the table and wrote something on it. "The hospital?" "It's part of the long story. Can I ask you something, Reggie?" It was strange calling this lady by a baseball name. He'd watched a TV movie about the life of Reggie Jackson, and remembered the crowd chanting Reggie! Reggie! in perfect unison. Then there was the Reggie candy bar.

"Sure." She grinned a lot, and it was obvious she enjoyed this scene with the kid who needed a lawyer. Mark knew the smiles would disappear if he made it through the story. She had pretty eyes, and they sparkled at him.

"If I tell you something, will you ever repeat it?" he asked.

"Of course not. It's privileged, confidential." "What does that mean?" "It means simply that I can never repeat anything you tell me unless you tell me I can repeat it." "Never?" "Never. It's like talking to your doctor or minister. The conversations are secret and held in trust. Do you understand?" "I think so. Under no circumstances-" "Never. Under no circumstances can I tell anyone what you tell me." "What if I told you something that no one else knows?" "I can't repeat it." "Something the police really want to know?" "I can't repeat it." She at first was amused by these questions, but his determination made her wonder.

"Something that could get you in*a lot of trouble." "I can't repeat it." Mark looked at her without blinking for a long minute, and convinced himself she could be trusted. Her face was warm and her eyes were comforting. She was relaxed and easy to talk to.

"Any more questions?" she asked.

"Yeah. Where'd you get the name Reggie?" "I changed my name several years ago. It was Re-gina, and I was married to a doctor, and then all sorts of bad things happened so I changed my name to Reggie." "You're divorced?" "Yes." "My parents are divorced." "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry. My brother and I were really happy when they got a divorce. My father drank a lot and beat us. Beat Mom too. Me and Ricky always hated him." "Ricky's your brother?" "Yes. He's the one in the hospital. '. ' "What's the matter with him?" "It's part of the long story." "When would you like to tell me this story?" Mark hesitated a few seconds and thought about a few things. He wasn't quite ready to tell all. "How much do you charge?" "I don't know. What kind of case is it?" "What kind of cases do you take?" "Mostly cases involving abused or neglected children. Some abandoned children. Lots of adoptions. A few medical malpractice cases involving infants. But mainly abuse cases. I get some pretty bad cases." "Good, because this is a really bad one. One person is dead. One is in the hospital. The police and FBI want to talk to me." "Look, Mark, I assume you don't have a lot of money to hire me, do you?" "No." "Technically, you're supposed to pay me something as a retainer, and once this is done I'm your lawyer and we'll go from there. Do you have a dollar?" "Yes." "Then why don't you give it to me as a retainer." Mark pulled a one-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. "This is all I've got." Reggie didn't want the kid's dollar, but she took it because ethics were ethics and because it would probably be his last payment. And he was proud of himself for hiring a lawyer. She would somehow return it to him.

She laid the bill on the table, and said, "Okay, now I'm the lawyer and you're the client. Let's hear the story." He reached into his pocket again and pulled out the folded clipping from the newspaper Greenway had given them. He handed it to her. "Have you seen this?" he asked. "It's in this morning's paper." His hand was trembling and the paper shook.

"Are you scared, Mark?" "Sort of." "Try to relax, okay." "Okay. I'll try. Have you seen this?" "No, I haven't seen the paper yet." She took the clipping and read it. Mark watched her eyes closely.

"Okay," she said when she finished.

"It mentions the body was found by two boys. Well, that's me and Ricky." "Well, I'm sure that must've been awful, but it's no crime to find a dead body." "Good. Because there's much more to the story." Her smile had disappeared. The pen was ready. "I want to hear it now." Mark breathed deeply and rapidly. The four doughnuts churned away in his stomach. He was scared, but he also knew he would feel much better when it was over. He settled deep in the chair, took a long breath, and looked at the floor.

He started with his career as a smoker, and Ricky catching him, and going to the woods. Then the car, the water hose, the fat man who turned out to be Jerome Clifford. He spoke slowly because he wanted to remember it all, and because he wanted his new lawyer to write it all down.

Glint attempted to interrupt after fifteen minutes, but Reggie frowned at him. He quickly closed the door and disappeared.

THE FIRST ACCOUNT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES with few interruptions from Reggie. There were gaps and holes, none the fault of Mark, just soft spots that she picked through during the second pass, which took another twenty minutes. They broke for coffee and ice water, all fetched by Clint, and Reggie moved the conversation to her desk, where she spread out her notes and prepared for the third run-through of this remarkable story. She filled one legal pad, and started another. The smiles were long gone. The friendly, patronizing chitchat from the grandmother to her grandchild had been replaced with pointed questions picking for details.

The only details Mark withheld were the ones describing the exact location of the body of Senator Boyd Boyette, or rather Romey's story about the body. As the secret and confidential conversation unfolded, it became obvious to Reggie that Mark knew where the body was allegedly buried, and she skillfully and fearfully danced around this information. Maybe she would ask, maybe she wouldn't. But it would be the last thing discussed.

An hour after they started, she took a break and read the newspaper story twice. Then again. It seemed to fit. He knew too many details to be lying. This was not a story a hyperactive mind could fabricate. And the poor kid was scared to death.

Clint interrupted again at eleven-thirty to inform Reggie her next appointment had been waiting for an hour. "Cancel it," Reggie said without looking from her notes, and Clint was gone. Mark walked around her office as she read. He stood in her window and watched the traffic on Third Street below. Then he returned to his seat and waited.

His lawyer was deeply troubled, and he almost felt sorry for her. All those names and faces in the Yellow Pages, and he had to drop this bomb on Reggie Love.

"What are you afraid of, Mark?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Lots of things. I've lied to the police about this, and I think they know I'm lying. And that scares me. My little brother's in a coma because of me. It's all my fault. I lied to his doctor. And all that scares me. I don't know what to do, and I guess that's why I'm here. What should I do?" "Have you told me everything?" "No, but almost." "Have you lied to me?" "No." "Do you know where the body is buried?" "I think so. I know what Jerome Clifford told me." For a split second, Reggie was terrified he would blurt it out. But he didn't, and they stared at each other for a long rime.

"Do you want to tell me where it is?" she finally asked.

"Do you want me to?" "I'm not sure. What keeps you from telling me?" "I'm scared, I don't want anybody to know that I know, because Romey told me his client had killed many people and was planning on killing Romey too. If he's killed lots of people, and if he thinks I know this secret, he'll come after me. And if I tell this stuff to the cops then he'll come after me for sure. He's in the Mafia, and that really scares me. Wouldn^t it scare you?" "I think so." "And the cops have threatened me u i aon i ten the truth, and they think I'm lying anyway, and I just don't know what to do. Do you think I should tell the police and the FBI?" Reggie stood and walked slowly to the window. She had no wonderful advice at this point. If she suggested that her newest client spill his guts to the FBI, and he followed her advice, his life could indeed be in danger. There was no law requiring him to tell. Obstruction of justice, maybe, but he was just a kid. They didn't know for certain what he knew, and if they couldn't prove it, he was safe.

"Let's do this, Mark. Don't tell me where the body is, okay? For now anyway. Maybe later, but not now. And let's meet with the FBI and listen to them. You won't have to say a word. I'll do the talking, and we'll both do the listening. And when it's over, you and I will decide what to do next." "Sounds good to me." "Does your mother know you're here?" "No. I need to call her." Reggie found the number in the phone book and dialed the hospital. Mark explained to Dianne that he had gone for a walk and would be there in a minute. He was a smooth liar, Reggie noticed. He listened for a while and looked disturbed. "How is he?" he asked. "I'll be there in a minute." He hung up and looked at Reggie. "Mom's upset. Ricky's coming out of the coma and she can't find Dr. Greenway." "I'll walk with you to the hospital." "That would be nice." "Where does the FBI want to meet?" "I think at the hospital." She checked her watch and threw two fresh legal pads into her briefcase. She was suddenly nervous. Mark waited by the door.