- •It stopped at Number 17 East Street. They waited and watched, whispering and pointing as the paramedics went inside.
- •It was a few minutes after seven. "Are you hungry, Mark?" Hardy asked.
- •Incompetent. I'll match it—two thousand now, and two thousand a month."
- •It was easier to lie because the kid wasn't there. And he was just a scared little kid who'd gotten things confused, and they were, after all, fbi agents, so she'd eventually believe them.
- •It was a department store portrait taken when Mark was in the second grade, and for years now it had hung in the den above the television. Mark stared at it.
- •It to the office before 9 a.M. She was a slow starter who usually hit her stride around four in the afternoon and preferred to work late.
- •It was really sort of funny——it was not, after all,
- •Is, ma'am. You can't just barge in here and demand to see the president of this company."
- •Irritated that they had proceeded without him. He sat next to Foltrigg.
- •It was easy. If he wanted to eavesdrop, no problem as
- •Italy and immigrated to this country in 1902. I'm half Italian."
- •In the last forty-nine hours, he'd learned much about interrogation. Keep the other guy on his heels. When the questions get old, dish out a few of your own. "How often does she bring a kid home?"
- •In one corner of the small den above the garage,
- •I ney spoke in hushed voices. It would be days or weeks before Ricky knew of the fire.
- •It was a brief service, just as Romey had asked for in his note. The lawyers and judges glanced at their watches. Another mournful lamentation started from above, and the minister excused everyone.
- •316 John uKianmvi
- •It certainly did. At the moment, the Sways had no home. Dianne worked in a sweatshop. There were no relatives in Memphis.
- •Ilk.C urn. _i lie iam-ily has to make the decision to do it, and the mother must tell us where she wants to go. We'll take over from there."
- •It would be a wonderful moment, this press conference.
- •Ing him right now. Because if we do, a million cops'll hound us to our graves. It won't work."
- •It was Harry Roosevelt. "Good morning, Reggie. Sorry to wake you."
- •It was just a motion for a continuance, normally a
- •It was a stupid thing to do because it insulted Latnond and angered the other judges. They had little use for the reverend.
- •Investigate this matter further, and 1 am confident 1 will find the leak."
- •It was an unfair question posed to a scared, deeply troubled, and irrational person, and she didn't like him asking it. She just shook her head. "I don't know," she mumbled.
- •It was a quiet question that hit hard. Neither Mc-Thune nor Lewis could deny the fact that witnesses had been lost. There was a long silence.
- •I hough glint's apartment was only fifteen minutes
- •Iuu want us to shoot him?" one of them said, nodding at Mark, and this really pissed her off.
- •I mean, you don't sound like you're in shock or anything."
- •Ingly, as if she'd finally awakened and was beginning to see the light.
- •Instructed to meet him immediately. He nipped through his black book and found the Alexandria number for k. O. Lewis.
- •It was a beautiful day. They were out for a stroll in the park. This was public property. Nothing to be afraid of.
- •Inside. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the floor. Reggie eased in behind him.
It was just a motion for a continuance, normally a
rather boring and routine legal skirmish, but nothing was boring when Barry the Blade Muldanno was the defendant and Willis Upchurch was the mouthpiece. Throw in the enormous ego of the Reverend Roy Fol-trigg and the press manipulation skills of Wally Boxx, and this innocuous little hearing for a continuance took on the air of an execution. The courtroom of the Honorable James Lamond was crowded with the curious, the press, and a small army of jealous lawyers who had more important things to do but just happened to be in the neighborhood. They milled about and spoke in
grave tones while keeping anxious eyes on tne Cameras and reporters attract lawyers like blood attracts sharks.
Beyond the railing that separated the players from the spectators, Foltrigg stood in the center of a tight circle of his assistants and whispered, frowning as if they were planning an invasion. He was decked out in his Sunday best—dark three-piece suit, white shirt, red-and-blue silk tie, hair perfect, shoes shined to a glow. He faced the audience, but of course was much too preoccupied to notice anyone. Across the way, Mul-danno sat with his back to the gaggle of onlookers and pretended to ignore everyone. He was dressed in black. The ponytail was perfect and arched down to the bottom of his collar. Willis Upchurch sat on the edge of the defense table, also facing the press while engaging himself in a highly animated conversation with a paralegal. If it was humanly possible, Upchurch loved the attention more than Foltrigg.
Muldanno did not yet know of the arrest of Jack Nance eight hours earlier in Memphis. He did not know Cal Sisson had spilled his guts. He had not heard from either Bono or Pirini, and he had sent Gronke back to Memphis that morning in complete ignorance of the night's events.
Foltrigg, on the other hand, was feeling quite smug. Based on the taped conversation gathered from the salt shaker, he would obtain on Monday indictments against Muldanno and Gronke for obstruction of justice. Convictions would be easy. He had them in the bag. He had Muldanno facing five years.
But Roy didn't have the body. And trying Barry the Blade on obstruction charges would not generate anywhere near the publicity of a nasty murder trial
complete with color glossies of the decomposed corpse and pathologists' reports about bullet entries and trajectories and exits. Such a trial would last for weeks, and Roy would shine on the evening news every night. He could just see it.
He'd sent Fink back to Memphis early that morning with the grand jury subpoenas for the kid and his lawyer. That should liven things up a bit. He should have the kid talking by Monday afternoon, and maybe, with just a little luck, he'd have the remains of Boyette by Monday night. This thought had kept him at the office until three in the morning. He strutted to the clerk's desk for nothing in particular, then strutted back, glaring at Muldanno, who ignored him.
The courtroom deputy stopped in front of the bench and yelled instructions for all to sit. Court was now in session, the Honorable James Lamond presiding. Lamond appeared from a side door, and was escorted to the bench by an assistant carrying a stack of heavy files. In his early fifties, Lamond was a baby among federal judges. One of countless Reagan appointees, he was typical—all business, no smiles, cut the crap and let's get on with it. He had been the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana immediately prior to Roy Foltrigg, and he hated his successor as much as anyone. Six months after taking the job, • Foltrigg had embarked upon a speaking tour of the district in which he presented charts and graphs to Rotarians and Civitans and declared with statistical evidence that his office was now much more efficient than it had been in prior years. Indictments were up. Dope dealers were behind bars. Public officials were running scared. Crime was in trouble, and the public's interest was now being fiercely protected because he, Roy Fol-
trigg, was now the chief federal prosecutor in the district.