They were brainwashed by their father, so they have no use for her. She hates him, of course, and I think it’s probably healthy.”
“She’s a very good lawyer,” he said as if he’d personally hired and fired many.
Momma Love moved closer, too close to suit Mark. She patted his knee and this irritated the hell out of him, but she was a sweet old woman and meant nothing by it. She’d buried a son and lost her only grandson, so he gave her a break. There was no moon. A soft wind gently rustled the leaves of the huge black oaks between the porch and the street. He was not eager to return to the hospital, and so he decided this was pleasant after all. He smiled at Momma Love, but she was staring blankly into the darkness, lost in some deep thought. A heavy, folded quilt padded the swing.
He assumed she would work her way back to the shooting of Jerome Clifford, and this he wanted to avoid. “Why does Reggie have so many kids for clients?”
She kept patting his knee. “Because some kids need lawyers, though most of them don’t know it. And most lawyers are too busy making money to worry about kids. She wants to help. She’ll always blame herself for losing her kids, and she just wants to help others. She’s very protective of her little clients.”
“I didn’t pay her very much money.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. Every month, Reggie takes at least two cases for free. They’re called pro bono, which means the lawyer does the work without a fee. If she didn’t want your case, she wouldn’t have taken it.”
He knew about pro bono. Half the lawyers on television were laboring away on cases they wouldn’t get paid for. The other half were sleeping with beautiful women and eating in fancy restaurants.
“Reggie has a soul, Mark, a conscience,” she continued, still patting gently. The wineglass was empty, but the words were clear and the mind was sharp. “She’ll work for no fee if she believes in the client. And some of her poor clients will break your heart, Mark. I cry all the time over some of these little fellas.”
“You’re very proud of her, aren’t you?”
“I am. Reggie almost died, Mark, a few years ago when the divorce was going on. I almost lost her. Then I almost went broke trying to get her back on her feet. But look at her now.”
“Will she ever get married again?”
“Maybe. She’s dated a couple of men, but nothing serious. Romance is not at the top of her list. Her work comes first. Like tonight. It’s almost eight o’clock, and she’s at the city jail talking to a little troublemaker they picked up for shoplifting. Wonder what’ll be in the newspaper in the morning.”
Sports, obituaries, the usual. Mark shifted uncomfortably and waited. It was obvious he was supposed to speak. “Who knows.”
“What was it like having your picture on the front page of the paper?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Where’d they get those pictures?”
“They’re school pictures.”
There was a long pause. The chains above them, squeaked as the swing moved slowly back and forth. “What was it like walking up on that dead man who’d just shot himself?”
“Pretty scary, but to be honest, my doctor told me not to discuss it because it stresses me out. Look at my little brother, you know. So, I’d better not say anything.”
She patted harder. “Of course. Of course.”
Mark pressed with his toes, and the swing moved a bit faster. His stomach was still packed and he was suddenly sleepy. Momma Love was humming now. The breeze picked up, and he shivered.
REGGIE FOUND THEM ON THE DARK PORCH, IN THE SWING,
ro’cking quietly back and forth. Momma Love sipped black coffee and patted him on the shoulder. Mark was curled in a knot beside her, his head resting in her lap, a quilt over his legs.
“How long has he been asleep?” she whispered.
“An hour or so. He got cold, then he got sleepy. He’s a sweet child.”
“He sure is. I’ll call his mother at the hospital, and see if he can stay here tonight.”
“He ate until he was stuffed. I’ll fix him a good breakfast in the morning.”
The Client
19
L HE IDEA WAS TRUMANN’S, AND IT WAS A WONDERFUL
idea, one that would work and thus would be snared immediately by Foltrigg and claimed as his own. Life with Reverend Roy was a series of stolen ideas and credits when things worked. And when things •went to hell,