John Grisham - 1993 The Client by John Grisham

Author:John Grisham [Grisham, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9780307576002
Google: ZeIK8bSbuWYC
Amazon: B003B02OQ4
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2010-03-16T05:00:00+00:00

HE INSISTED ON RIDING IN THE REAR SEAT, LIKE A REAL CRIMINAL. The car was an unmarked Chrysler but he spotted it a hundred yards away in the parking lot. Nassar and Klickman were afraid to speak to him. They rode in the front seat in complete silence, hoping he might do the same. They were not so lucky.

“You forgot to read me my rights,” he said as Nassar drove as fast as possible.

No response from the front seat.

“Hey, you clowns up there. You forgot to read me my rights.”

No response. Nassar drove faster.

“Do you know how to read me my rights?”

No response.

“Hey, meathead. Yeah, you with the shoes. Do you know how to read me my rights?”

Klickman’s breathing was labored, but he was determined to ignore him. Oddly, Nassar had a crooked smile barely noticeable under the mustache. He stopped at a red light, looked both ways, then gunned the engine.

“Listen to me, meathead, okay. I’ll do it to myself, okay. I have the right to remain silent. Did you catch that? And, if I say anything, you clowns can use it against me in court. Get that, meathead? Of course, if I said anything you dumbasses would forget it. Then there’s something about the right to a lawyer. Can you help with this one, meathead? Yo!, meathead. What’s the bit about the lawyer? I’ve seen it on television a million times.”

Meathead Klickman cracked his window so he could breathe. Nassar glanced at the shoes and almost laughed. The criminal sat low in the rear seat with his legs crossed.

“Poor meathead. Can’t even read me my rights. This car stinks, meathead. Why don’t you clean this car? It smells like cigarette smoke.”

“I hear you like cigarette smoke,” Klickman said, and felt much better about himself. Nassar giggled to help his friend. They’d taken enough crap off this brat.

Mark saw a crowded parking lot next to a tall building. Patrol cars were parked in rows next to the building. Nassar turned into the lot and parked in the driveway.

They rushed him through the entrance doors and down a long hallway. He had finally stopped talking. He was on their turf. Cops were everywhere. Signs directed traffic to the DUI holding tank, the jail, the visitors’ room, the receiving room. Plenty of signs and rooms. They stopped at a desk with a row of closed-circuit monitors behind it, and Nassar signed some papers. Mark studied the surroundings. Klickman almost felt sorry for him. He looked even smaller.

They were off again. The elevator took them to the fourth floor, and again they stopped at a desk. A sign on the wall pointed to the juvenile wing, and Mark figured he was getting close.

A uniformed lady with a clipboard and a plastic tag declaring her to be Doreen stopped them. She looked at some papers, then at the clipboard. “Says here Judge Roosevelt wants Mark Sway in a private room,” she said.

“I don’t care where you put him,” Nassar said. “Just take him.”

She was frowning and looking at her clipboard.

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