an hour she got at the lamp factory. The family would live in a house with a foundation, not a cheap trailer. There would be a cash incentive, maybe a new car.
MARK SAT IN THE DARKNESS ON THE THIN MATTRESS, AND
stared at his mother lying above him next to Ricky. He was sick of this room and this hospital. The foldaway bed was ruining his back. Tragically, Karen the beautiful was not at the nurses’ station. The hallways were empty. No one waited for the elevators.
A solitary man occupied the waiting area. He
flipped through a magazine and ignored the “M*A*S*H” reruns on the television. He was on the sofa, which happened to be the spot Mark had planned to sleep. Mark stuck two quarters in the machine, and pulled out a Sprite. He sat in a chair and stared at the TV. The man was about forty, and looked tired and worried. Ten minutes passed, and “M*A*S*H” went away. Suddenly, there was Gill Teal, the people’s lawyer, standing calmly at the scene of a car wreck talking about defending rights and fighting insurance companies. Gill Teal, he’s for real.
Jack Nance closed the magazine and picked up another. He glanced at Mark for the first time, and smiled. “Hi there,” he said warmly, then looked at a Redbook.
Mark nodded. The last thing he needed in his life was another stranger. He sipped his drink, and prayed for silence.
“What’re you doing here?” the man asked.
“Watching television,” Mark answered, barely audible.
The man stopped smiling and began reading an article. The midnight news came on, and there was a huge story about a typhoon in Pakistan. There were live pictures of dead people and dead animals piled along the shore like driftwood. It was the kind of footage one had to watch.
“That’s awful, isn’t it,” Jack Nance said to the TV as a helicopter hovered over a pile of human debris.
“It’s gross,” Mark said, careful not to get friendly. Who knows—this guy could be just another hungry lawyer waiting to pounce on wounded prey.
“Really gross,” the man said, shaking his head at the suffering. “I guess we have much to be thankful for.
But it’s hard to be thankful in a hospital, know what I mean?” He was suddenly sad again. He looked painfully at Mark.
“What’s the matter?” Mark couldn’t help but ask.
“It’s my son. He’s in real bad shape.” The man threw the magazine on the table and rubbed his eyes.
“What happened?” Mark asked. He felt sorry for this guy.
“Car wreck. Drunk driver. My boy was thrown out of the car.”
“Where is he?”
“ICU, first floor. I had to leave and get away. It’s a zoo down there, people screaming and crying all the time.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“He’s only eight years old.” He appeared to be crying, but Mark couldn’t tell.
“My little brother’s eight. He’s in a room around the corner.”
“What’s wrong with him?” the man asked without looking.
“He’s in shock.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. And getting longer. He’ll make it, though. I sure hope your kid pulls through.”
Jack Nance looked at his watch and suddenly stood. “Me too. I need to go check on him. Good luck to you, uh, what’s your name?”
“Mark Sway.”
“Good luck, Mark. I gotta run.” He walked to the elevators and disappeared.
Mark took his place on the couch, and within minutes was asleep.
The Client
14
L HE PHOTOS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF WEDNESDAY’S EDI-
tion of the Memphis Press had been lifted from the yearbook at Willow Road Elementary School. They were a year old—Mark was in the fourth grade and Ricky the first. They were next to each other on the bottom third of the page, and under the cute, smiling faces were the names. Mark Sway. Ricky Sway. To the left was a story about Jerome Clifford’s suicide and the bizarre aftermath in which the boys we’re involved. It was written by Slick Moeller, and he had pieced together a suspicious little story. The FBI was involved; Ricky was in shock; Mark had called 911but hadn’t given his name; the police had tried to interrogate Mark but he hadn’t talked yet; the family had hired a lawyer, one Reggie Love (female); Mark’s fingerprints were all over the inside of the car, including the gun. The story made Mark look like a cold-blooded killer.
Karen brought it to him around six as he sat in an empty semiprivate room directly across the hall from Ricky’s. Mark was watching cartoons and trying to nap. Greenway wanted everyone out of the room ex-
cept Ricky and