rOLTRIGG WATCHED THE TRAFFIC ON POYDRAS STREET and waited for the call from Memphis. He was tired of pacing and checking his watch. He had tried to return phone calls and dictate letters, but it was hopeless. His mind could not leave the wonderful image of Mark Sway sitting in a witness chair somewhere in Memphis telling all his splendid secrets. Two hours had passed since the hearing was scheduled to start, and surely they'd take a recess along the way so Fink could dash to a phone and call him.

Larry Trumann was on standby, waiting for the call so they could swing into action with a posse of corpse hunters. They had become quite proficient in digging for bodies during the past eight months. They just hadn't found any.

But today would be different. Roy would take the call, walk to Trumann's office, and off they'd go to find the late Boyd Boyette. Foltrigg talked to himself, not a whisper or a mumble, but a full-blown speech in which he addressed the media with the thrilling announcement that, yes, they had indeed found the senator, and, yes, he died of six bullet wounds to the head. The gun was a. 22, and the bullet fragments were definitely, without the slightest doubt, fired from the same handgun that had been so meticulously traced to the defendant, Mr. Barry Muldanno.

It would be a wonderful moment, this press conference.

Someone knocked slightly and the door opened before Roy could turn around. It was Wally Boxx, the only person allowed such casual entries.

"Heard anything?" Wally asked, walking to the window and standing next to his boss.

"No. Not a word. I wish Fink would get to a phone. He has specific orders." They stood in silence and watched the street.

"What's the grand jury doing?" Roy asked.

"The usual. Routine indictments." "Who's in there?" "Hoover. He's finishing up with the drug bust in Gretna. Should be through this afternoon." "Are they scheduled to work tomorrow?" "No. They've had a hard week. We promised them yesterday they could take off tomorrow. What're you thinking?" Foltrigg shifted weight slightly and scratched his chin. His eyes had a faraway look, and he watched the cars below but didn't see them. Heavy thinking was sometimes painful for him. "Think about this. If, for some reason, the kid doesn't talk, and if Fink drills a dry hole with the hearing, what do we do then? I say we go to the grand jury, get subpoenas for both the kid and his lawyer, and drag them down here. The kid's gotta be scared right now, and he's still in Memphis. He'll be terrified when he has to come here." "Why would you subpoena his lawyer?" "To scare her. Pure harassment. Shake 'em both up. We get the subpoenas today, keep them sealed,' sit on them until late tomorrow afternoon when everything's closing for the weekend, then we serve the kid and his lawyer. The subpoenas will require their presence before our grand jury at 10 A. M. Monday morning. They won't have a chance to run to court and quash the subpoenas because it's the weekend and everything's shut down and all the judges are out of town. They'll be too scared not to show up here Monday morning, on our turf, Wally. Right down the hall here, in our building." "What if the kid doesn't know anything?" Roy shook his head in frustration. They'd had this conversation a dozen times in the last forty-eight hours. "I thought that was established." "Maybe. And maybe the kid's talking right now." "He probably is." A secretary squeaked through on the intercom and announced that Mr. Fink was holding on line one. Fol-trigg walked to his desk and grabbed the phone. "Yes!" "The hearing's over, Roy," Fink reported. He sounded relieved and tired.

Foltrigg hit the switch for the speakerphone, and fell into his chair. Wally perched his tiny butt on the corner of the desk. "Watty's here with me, Tom. Tell us what happened." " "Nothing much. The kid's back in jail. He wouldn't talk, so the judge found him in contempt." "What do you mean, he wouldn't talk?" "He wouldn't talk. The judge handled both the direct and cross-examinations, and the kid admitted being in the car and talking with Clifford. But when the judge asked questions about Boyette and Muldanno, the kid took the Fifth Amendment." "The Fifth Amendment!".

"That's right. He wouldn't budge. Said jail wasn't so bad after all, and that he had no other place to go." "But he knows, doesn't he, Tom? The little punk knows." "Oh, there's no question about it. Clifford told him everything." Foltrigg slapped his hands together. "I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! I've been telling you boys this for three days now." He jumped to his feet and squeezed his hands together. "I knew it!" Fink continued. "The judge has scheduled another hearing for noon tomorrow. He wants the kid brought back in to see if he's changed his mind. I'm not too optimistic." "I want you at that hearing, Tom." "Yes, and the judge wants you too, Roy. I explained you had a hearing on the continuance motion in the morning, and he insisted that you fax him a copy of the hearing order. He said he'd excuse you under those circumstances." "Is he some kind of nut?" "No. He's not a nut. He said he plans to hold these little hearings quite often next week, and he expects both of us, as petitioners, to be there." "Then he is a nut." Wally rolled his eyes and shook his head. These local judges could be such fools.

"After the hearing, the judge talked to us about placing the kid and his family in witness protection. He thinks he can convince the kid to talk if we can guarantee his safety." "That could take weeks." "I think so too, but K. O. told the judge it could be done in a matter of days. Frankly, Roy, I don't think the kid will talk until we can make some guarantees. He's a tough little guy." "What about his lawyer?" "She played it cool, didn't say much, but she and the judge are pretty tight. I got the impression the kid's getting a lot of advice. She's no dummy." Wally just had to say something. "Tom, it's me, Wally. What do you think will happen over the weekend?" "Who knows? As I said, I don't think this kid'll change his mind overnight, and I don't think the judge plans to release him. The judge knows about Gronke and the Muldanno boys, and I get the impression he wants the kid locked up for his own protection. Tomorrow's Friday, so it looks like the kid will stay where he is over the weekend. And I'm sure the judge will call us back in on Monday for another chat." "Are you coming in, Tom?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, I'll catch a flight out in a couple of hours, and fly back here in the morning." Fink's voice was now very tired.

"I'll be waiting for you here tonight, Tom. Good work." "Yeah." Fink faded away and Roy hit the switch.

"Get the grand jury ready," he snapped at Wally, who bounced off the desk and headed for the door. "Tell Hoover to take a break. This won't take but a minute. Get me the Mark Sway file. Inform the clerk that the subpoenas will be sealed until they are served late tomorrow." Wally was through the door and gone. Foltrigg returned to the window, mumbling to himself, "I knew it. I just knew it."

THE COP IN THE SUIT SIGNED DOREEN's CLIPBOARD, AND left with his partner. "Follow me," she said to Mark as if he'd sinned again and her patience was wearing thin. He followed her, watching her wide rear end rock from side to side in a pair of tight black pants. A thick, shiny belt squeezed her narrow waist and held an assortment of key rings, two black boxes which he assumed to be pagers, and a pair of handcuffs. No gun. Her shirt was official white with markings up and down the sleeves and gold trim around the collar.

The hall was empty as she opened his door and motioned for him to return to his little room. She followed him in and eased around the walls like a dope dog sniffing at the airport. "Sort of surprised to see you back here," she said, inspecting the toilet.

He could think of nothing to say to this, and he was not in the mood for a conversation. As he watched her stoop and bend, he thought about her husband serving thirty years for bank robbery, and if she insisted on chatting he might just bring this up. That would quiet her down and send her on her way.

"Must've upset Judge Roosevelt," she said, looking through the windows.

"I guess so." "How long are you in for?" "He didn't say. 1 have to go back tomorrow." She walked to the bunks and began patting the blanket. "I've been reading about you and your little brother. Pretty strange case. How's he doing?" Mark stood by the door, hoping she would just go away. "He's probably gonna die," he said sadly.

"No!" "Yeah, it's awful. He's in a coma, you know, sucking his thumb, grunting and slobbering every now and then. His eyes have rolled back into his head. Won't eat." "I'm sorry I asked." Her heavily decorated eyes were wide open, and she had stopped touching everything.

Yeah, I'll bet you're sorry you asked, Mark thought. "I need to be there with him," Mark said. "My mom's there, but she's all stressed out. Taking a lot of pills, you know." "I'm so sorry." "It's awful. I've been feeling dizzy myself. Who knows, I could end up like my brother." "Can I get you anything?" • "No. I just need to lie down." He walked to the bottom bunk and fell into it. Doreen knelt beside him, deeply troubled now.

"Anything you want, honey, you just let me know, okay?" "Okay. Some pizza would be nice." She stood and thought about this for a second. He closed his eyes as if in deep pain.

"I'll see what I can do." "I haven't had lunch, you know." "I'll be right back," she said, and she left. The door clicked loudly behind her. Mark bolted to his feet and listened to it.