"Pull up your shirt!" she insisted, and he began pulling at his bulky Memphis State Tigers sweatshirt. She opened her briefcase and removed a small black recorder and a strip of plastic and Velcro. She checked the micro-cassette tape, then punched the buttons. Mark watched every move. She'd. used this device many times before, he could tell. She pressed it to his stomach, and said, "Hold it right here." Then she threaded the plastic strap through a clip on the recorder, wrapped it around his midsection and back, and fastened it snugly with the Velcro ends. "Breathe deeply," she said, and he did.
He tucked the sweatshirt into his jeans. Reggie took a step back and stared at his stomach. "Perfect," she said.
"What if they frisk me?" "They won't. Let's go." She grabbed her briefcase, and they were out the door.
"How do you know they -won't frisk me?" he asked again, very anxious. He walked fast to keep up with her. A nurse looked at them suspiciously.
"Because they're here to talk, not to arrest. Just trust me." "I trust you, but I'm really scared." "You'll do fine, Mark. Just remember what I told you." "Are you sure they can't see this thing?" "I'm positive." She pushed hard through a door and they were back in the stairwell, descending quickly on green concrete steps. Mark was one step behind. "What if the beeper goes off or something and they freak out and pull guns? What then?" "No beeper." She took his hand, squeezed it hard, and zigzagged downward to the second floor. "And they don't shoot kids." "They did in a movie once."
THE SECOND FLOOR OF ST. PETER'S HAD BEEN BUILT MANY years before the ninth. It was gray and dirty, and the narrow corridors were swarming with the usual anxious traffic of nurses, doctors, technicians, and orderlies pushing stretchers, and patients rolling along in wheel-chairs, and dazed families walking to nowhere in particular and trying to stay awake. Corridors met from all directions in chaotic little junctions, then branched out again in a hopeless labyrinth. Reggie asked three nur'ses about the location of Room 28, and the third pointed and talked but never stopped walking. They found a neglected hallway with ancient carpet and bad lighting, and six doors down to the right was their room. The door was cheap wood with no window.
"I'm scared, Reggie," Mark said, staring at the door.
She held his hand firmly. If she was nervous, it was not apparent. Her face was calm. Her voice was warm and reassuring. "Just do as I told you, Mark. I know what I'm doing." They retreated a step or two, and Reggie opened an identical door to Room 24 It was an abandoned coffee room now used for haphazard storage. "I'll wait in here. Now, go knock on the door." "I'm scared, Reggie." She carefully felt the recorder, and worked her fingers around it until she pushed the button. "Now go," she instructed, and pointed down the hall.
Mark took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He could hear chairs move inside. "Come in," someone said, and the voice was not friendly. He opened the door slowly, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. The room was narrow and long, just like the table in the center of it. No windows. No smiles from the two men who stood on each side of the table near the end. They could pass for twins-white button-down shirts, red-and-blue ties, dark pants, short hair.
"You must be Mark," one said as the other stared at the door.
Mark nodded, but could not speak.
"Where's your mother?" "Uh, who are you?" Mark managed to get it out.
The one on the right said, "I'm Jason McThune, FBI, Memphis." He stuck out his hand and Mark shook it limply. "Nice to meet you, Mark." "Yeah, my pleasure." "And I'm Larry Trumann," said the other. "FBI, New Orleans." Mark allowed Trumann the same feeble handshake. The agents exchanged nervous looks, and for an awkward second neither knew what to say.
Trumann finally pointed to the chair at the end of the table. "Have a seat, Mark." McThune nodded his agreement and almost smiled. Mark carefully sat down, terrified the Velcro would break away and the damned thing would somehow fall off. They'd handcuff his little butt so fast and throw him in the car and he'd never see his mother again. What would Reggie do then? They moved toward him in their rolling chairs. They slid their notepads on the table to within inches of him.
They were breathing on him, and Mark figured it was part of the game. Then he almost smiled. If they wanted to sit this close, fine. But the black recorder would get it all. No fading voices.
"We, uh, we really expected your mother and Dr.
Greenway to be here," Trumann said, glancing at Mc-Thune.
"They're with my brother." "How is he?" McThune asked gravely.
"Not too good. Mom can't leave his room right now." "We thought she'd be here," Trumann said again, and looked at McThune as if uncertain how to proceed.
"Well, we' can wait a day or two until she's available," Mark offered.
"No, Mark, we really need to talk now." "Maybe I can go get her." Trumann took his pen from his shirt pocket and smiled at Mark. "No, let's talk a few minutes, Mark. Just the three of us. Are you nervous?" "A little. What do you want?" He was still stiff with fear but breathing better. The recorder hadn't beeped or shocked him.
"Well, we want to ask you some questions about yesterday." "Do I need a lawyer?" They looked at each other with perfectly symmetrical open mouths, and at least five seconds passed before McThune cocked his head at Mark and said, "Of course not." "Why not?" "Well, we just, you know, want to ask you a few questions. That's all. If you decide you want your mother, then we'll go get her. Or something. But you don't need a lawyer. Just a few questions, that's all." "I've already talked to the cops once. In fact, I talked to the cops for a long time last night." "We're not cops. We're FBI agents." "That's what scares me. I think maybe I need a lawyer to, you know, protect my rights and all." "You've been watching too much TV, kid." "The name's Mark, okay? Can you at least call me Mark?" "Sure. Sorry. But you don't need a lawyer." "Yeah," Trumann chimed in. "Lawyers just get in the way. You have to pay them money, and they object to everything." "Don't you think we should wait until my mother can be here?" They exchanged matching little smiles, and Mc-Thune said, "Not really, Mark. I mean, we can wait if you want to, but you're a smart kid and we're really in a hurry here, and we just have a few quick questions for you." "Okay. I guess. If I have to." Trumann looked at his notepad, and went first. "Good. You told the Memphis Police that Jerome Clifford was already dead when you and Ricky found the car yesterday. Now, Mark, is this really the truth?" He sort of sneered toward the end of the question as if he knew damned well it wasn't the truth.
Mark fidgeted and looked straight ahead. "Do I have to answer the question?" "Sure you do." "Why?" "Because we need to know the truth, Mark. We're the FBI, and we're investigating this thing, and we must know the truth." "What happens if I don't answer?" "Oh, lots of things. We might be forced to take you down to our office, in the backseat of the car of course, no handcuffs, and ask some really tough questions. May have to bring along your mother too." "What will happen to my mother? Can she get in trouble?" "Maybe." "What kind of trouble?" They paused for a second and exchanged nervous looks. They had started on shaky ground, and things were getting shakier by the minute. Children are not to be interviewed without first talking to the parents.