"They can't take Mark," Glint said. "He's under the jurisdiction of our Juvenile Court." "I need to talk to Harry. But he's out of town." "Where is he?" "Fishing somewhere with his sons." "This is more important than fishing, Reggie. Let's find him. He can stop it, can't he?" She was thinking of a hundred things at once. "This is pretty slick, Glint. Think about it. Foltrigg waits until late Friday to serve subpoenas for Monday morning." "How can he do this?" "It's easy. He just did it. In a criminal case like this, a federal grand jury can subpoena any witness from anywhere, regardless of time and distance. And the witness must appear unless he or she can first quash the subpoena." "How do you quash one?" "You file a motion in federal court to void the subpoena." "Lemme guess, federal court in New Orleans?" "That's right. We're forced to find the trial judge early Monday morning in New Orleans and beg him to allow an emergency hearing to quash the subpoena." "It won't work, Reggie." "Of course it won't work. That's the way Foltrigg planned it." She gulped the diet Coke. "Do you have any coffee?" "Sure." He began opening drawers.
Reggie was thinking out loud". "If I can dodge the subpoena until Monday, Foltrigg will be forced to issue u nave time to quash. The problem is Mark. They're not after me, because they know they can't force me to talk." "Do you know where the damned body is, Reg-gie?" "No." "Does Mark?" "Yes." He froze for a moment, then ran water in the pot.
"We have to figure out a way to keep Mark here, Glint. We can't allow him to go to New Orleans." "Call Harry." "Harry's fishing in the mountains." "Then call Harry's wife. Find out where he's fishing in the mountains. I'll go get him if necessary." "You're right." She grabbed the phone and started calling.
Chapter 32
TINAL ROOM CHECK AT THE JUVENILE DETENTION CENTER was 10 P. M., when they made sure all lights and televisions were off. Mark heard Telda rattling keys and givi-ing commands across the hall. His shirt was soaked, unbuttoned, and sweat ran to his navel and puddled around the zipper of his jeans. The television was off. His breathing was heavy. His thick hair was watery and rows of sweat ran to his eyebrows and dripped from the tip of his nose. She was next door. His face was crimson and hot.
Telda knocked, then unlocked Mark's door. The light was on and this immediately irritated her. She took a step inside, glanced at the bunks, but he wasn't there.
Then she saw his feet beside the toilet. He was curled tightly with his knees on his chest, motionless except for rapid, heavy breathing.
His eyes were closed and his left thumb was in his mouth.
"Mark!" she shouted, suddenly terrified. "Mark! Oh my God!" She ran from the room to get help, and... ". j^vyiiu:, wmi Ljenny, tier partner, who took a. quick look.
"Doreen was worried about this," Denny said, touching the sweat on Mark's stomach. "Damn, he's soaking wet." Telda was pinching his wrist. "His pulse is crazy. Look at him breathe. Call an ambulance!" "The poor kid's in shock, isn't he?" "Go call an ambulance!" Denny lumbered from the room and the floor shook. Telda picked Mark up and carefully placed him on the bottom bunk, where he curled again and brought his knees to his chest. The thumb never left his mouth. Denny was back with a clipboard. "This must be Doreen's handwriting. Says here to check on him every half hour, and if there's any doubt, to rush him to St. Peter's and call Dr. Greenway." "This is all my fault," Telda said. "I shouldn't have allowed those damned marshals in here. Scared the poor boy to death." Denny knelt beside her, and with a thick thumb peeled back the right eyelid. "Damn! His eyes have rolled back. This kid's in trouble," he said with all the gravity of a brain surgeon.
"Get a washcloth over here," Telda said, and Denny did as told. "Doreen was telling me this is what happened to his little brother. They saw that shooting on Monday, both of them, and the little one's been in shock ever since." Denny handed her the cloth and she wiped Mark's forehead.
"Damn, his heart's gonna explode," Denny said, on his knees again next to Telda. "He's breathing like crazy." "Poor kid. I should've run those marshals off," Telda said.
"I would have. They got no right coming on this floor." He jabbed another thumb into the left eye, and Mark groaned and twitched. Then he started the moaning, just like Ricky, and this scared them even more. A low, dull, pitchless sound from deep in the throat. He sucked hard on the thumb.
A paramedic from the main jail three floors down ran into the room, followed by another jailer. "What's up?" he asked as Telda and Denny moved.
"I think it's called traumatic shock or stress or something," Telda said. "He's been acting strange all day, then about an hour ago two U. S. marshals were here to give him a subpoena." The paramedic was not listening. He gripped a wrist and found the pulse. Telda rattled on. "They scared him to death, and I think it sent him into shock. I should've watched him after that, but I got busy." "I would've run those damned marshals off," Denny said. They stood side by side behind the paramedic.
"This is what happened to his little brother, you know, the one who's been in the newspaper all week. The shooting and all." "He's gotta go," the paramedic said, standing, frowning, and talking into his radio. "Hurry up with the stretcher to the fourth floor," he barked into it. "Got a kid in bad shape." Denny stuck the clipboard in front of the paramedic. "Says here to take him to St. Peter's. Dr. Green-way." "That's where his brother is," Telda added. "Doreen told me all about it. She was worried this sne aimost sent tor an ambulance this afternoon. Said he's been slipping away all day. I should've been more careful." The stretcher arrived with two more paramedics.
- Mark was quickly laid on it and covered with a blanket. A strap was placed across his thighs and another on his-chest. His eyes never opened, but he managed to keep the thumb in his mouth.
And he managed to emit the painful, monotonous groan that frightened the paramedics and sped the stretcher along. It rolled quickly past the front station, and into an elevator.
"You ever seen this before?" one paramedic mumbled under his breath to the other.
"Not that I recall." "He's burning up." "The skin is normally cool and clammy with shock. I've never seen this." "Yeah. Maybe traumatic shock is different. Check out that thumb." "Is this the kid the mob's after?" "Yeah. Front page today and yesterday." "I guess he's gone over the edge." The elevator stopped, and they pushed the stretcher hurriedly through a series of short hallways, all busy and filled with the usual Friday night madness of city jail. A set of double doors flew open, and they were at the ambulance.
The ride to St. Peter's took less than ten minutes, half as long as the wait once they arrived. Three other ambulances were in the process of depositing their occupants. St. Peter's received the vast majority of Memphis knife wounds, gunshot victims, beaten wives, and mangled bodies from weekend car wrecks. The pace was hectic twenty-four hours a day, but from sunset Friday until late Sunday, the place was in chaos.
They rolled him through the bay and onto the white-tiled floors, where the stretcher stopped and the paramedics waited and filled out forms. A small army of nurses and doctors scrambled around a new patient and all yelled at the same time. People ran in every direction. A half dozen cops milled about. Three more stretchers were parked haphazardly in the wide hallway.