going on. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“Maybe not.”
They left the expressway, and were now darting through traffic. The tall buildings of downtown Memphis were in sight.
“I just hope you’re telling the truth,” Hardy said.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I’ve got my doubts.”
Mark swallowed hard and looked in the side mirror. “Why do you have doubts?”
“I’ll tell you what I think, kid. You want to hear it?”
“Sure,” Mark said slowly.
“Well, I think you kids were in the woods smoking. I found some fresh cigarette butts under that tree with the rope. I figure you were under there having a little smoke and you saw the whole thing.”
Mark’s heart stopped and his blood ran cold, but he knew the importance of trying to appear calm. Just shrug it off. Hardy wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything. He caught his hands shaking, so he sat on them. Hardy watched him.
“Do you arrest kids for smoking cigarettes?” Mark asked, his voice a shade weaker.
“No. But kids who lie to cops get in all sorts of trouble.”
“I’m not lying, okay. I’ve smoked cigarettes therebefore, but not today. We were just walking through the woods, thinking about maybe having a smoke, and we walked up on the car and Romey.”
Hardy hesitated slightly, then asked, “Who’s Romey?”
Mark braced himself and breathed deeply. In a flash, he knew it was over. He’d blown it. Said too much. Lied too much. He’d lasted less than an hour with his story. Keep thinking, he told himself.
“That’s the guy’s name, isn’t it?”
“Romey?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you called him?”
“No. I told your mother his name was Jerome Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“I thought you said it was Romey Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“Who ever heard of the name Romey?”
“Beats me.”
The car turned right, and Mark looked straight ahead. “Is this St. Peter’s?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
Hardy parked to the side, and they watched the ambulance back up to the emergency dock.
5
THE HONORABLE J. ROY FOLTRIGG, UNITED STATES ATTORNEY for the Southern District of Louisiana at New Orleans, and a Republican, sipped properly from a can of tomato juice and stretched his legs in the rear of his customized Chevrolet van as it raced smoothly along the expressway. Memphis was five hours to the north, straight up Interstate 55, and he could’ve caught a plane, but there were two reasons why he hadn’t. First, the paperwork. He could claim it was official business related to the Boyd Boyette case, and he could stretch things here and there and make it work. But it would take months to get reimbursed and there would be eighteen different forms. Second, and much more important, he didn’t like to fly. He could’ve waited three hours in New Orleans for a flight that would last for an hour and place him in Memphis around 11 P.M., but they would make it by midnight in the van. He didn’t confess this fear of flying, and he knew he would one day be forced to see a shrink to overcome it. For the meantime, he had purchased this fancy van with his own money and loaded it down with appliances andgadgets, two phones, a television, even a fax machine. He buzzed around the Southern District of Louisiana in it, always with Wally Boxx behind the wheel. It was much nicer and more comfortable than any limousine.
He slowly kicked off his loafers and watched the night fly by as Special Agent Trumann listened to the telephone stuck in his ear. On the other end of the heavily padded back bench sat Assistant U.S. Attorney Thomas Fink, a loyal Foltrigg subordinate who’d worked on the Boyette case eighty hours a week and would handle most of the trial, especially the nonglamorous grunt work, saving of course the easy and high-profile parts for his boss. Fink was reading a document, as always, and trying to listen to the mumblings of Agent Trumann, who was seated across from him in a heavy swivel
“Maybe not.”
They left the expressway, and were now darting through traffic. The tall buildings of downtown Memphis were in sight.
“I just hope you’re telling the truth,” Hardy said.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I’ve got my doubts.”
Mark swallowed hard and looked in the side mirror. “Why do you have doubts?”
“I’ll tell you what I think, kid. You want to hear it?”
“Sure,” Mark said slowly.
“Well, I think you kids were in the woods smoking. I found some fresh cigarette butts under that tree with the rope. I figure you were under there having a little smoke and you saw the whole thing.”
Mark’s heart stopped and his blood ran cold, but he knew the importance of trying to appear calm. Just shrug it off. Hardy wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything. He caught his hands shaking, so he sat on them. Hardy watched him.
“Do you arrest kids for smoking cigarettes?” Mark asked, his voice a shade weaker.
“No. But kids who lie to cops get in all sorts of trouble.”
“I’m not lying, okay. I’ve smoked cigarettes therebefore, but not today. We were just walking through the woods, thinking about maybe having a smoke, and we walked up on the car and Romey.”
Hardy hesitated slightly, then asked, “Who’s Romey?”
Mark braced himself and breathed deeply. In a flash, he knew it was over. He’d blown it. Said too much. Lied too much. He’d lasted less than an hour with his story. Keep thinking, he told himself.
“That’s the guy’s name, isn’t it?”
“Romey?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you called him?”
“No. I told your mother his name was Jerome Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“I thought you said it was Romey Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“Who ever heard of the name Romey?”
“Beats me.”
The car turned right, and Mark looked straight ahead. “Is this St. Peter’s?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
Hardy parked to the side, and they watched the ambulance back up to the emergency dock.
5
THE HONORABLE J. ROY FOLTRIGG, UNITED STATES ATTORNEY for the Southern District of Louisiana at New Orleans, and a Republican, sipped properly from a can of tomato juice and stretched his legs in the rear of his customized Chevrolet van as it raced smoothly along the expressway. Memphis was five hours to the north, straight up Interstate 55, and he could’ve caught a plane, but there were two reasons why he hadn’t. First, the paperwork. He could claim it was official business related to the Boyd Boyette case, and he could stretch things here and there and make it work. But it would take months to get reimbursed and there would be eighteen different forms. Second, and much more important, he didn’t like to fly. He could’ve waited three hours in New Orleans for a flight that would last for an hour and place him in Memphis around 11 P.M., but they would make it by midnight in the van. He didn’t confess this fear of flying, and he knew he would one day be forced to see a shrink to overcome it. For the meantime, he had purchased this fancy van with his own money and loaded it down with appliances andgadgets, two phones, a television, even a fax machine. He buzzed around the Southern District of Louisiana in it, always with Wally Boxx behind the wheel. It was much nicer and more comfortable than any limousine.
He slowly kicked off his loafers and watched the night fly by as Special Agent Trumann listened to the telephone stuck in his ear. On the other end of the heavily padded back bench sat Assistant U.S. Attorney Thomas Fink, a loyal Foltrigg subordinate who’d worked on the Boyette case eighty hours a week and would handle most of the trial, especially the nonglamorous grunt work, saving of course the easy and high-profile parts for his boss. Fink was reading a document, as always, and trying to listen to the mumblings of Agent Trumann, who was seated across from him in a heavy swivel
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