“You know him?”
“Know of him. Sephus Jones.”
“He threatened me.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Netty’s face bore the pinched quality of someone looking for a place to spit. “Folks around here refer to him as Skunk. Whenever he’s disappeared off for a spell, there’s no question but Sephus has been sent up. Again.” She pointed to where the envelope’s corner poked from her shorts. “What’s that he planted in your pocket?”
“A check.” She used two fingers to pull the envelope free. “My guess is it’s a retainer from New Horizons for Dale Steadman’s legal fees.”
“You want me to burn it?”
Kirsten entered the front hall and set the envelope upon the side table. She then headed upstairs for the guestroom shower. Sephus Jones’ imprint was on her skin like a rising bruise. “I think Marcus should see it.”
“Why spoil the man’s Friday? I could dig a hole and bury it out there by your plants, he knows where it is if he’s interested.”
CHAPTER
———
5
THE WAKE COUNTY COURTHOUSE was just another Raleigh downtown high-rise, banded across its center by three stories of windowless concrete. These middle floors housed prisoners awaiting trial and those sentenced to anything less than ninety days. A second jail had recently been erected across the street and was connected by a fourth-floor walkover. The courthouse foyer was a tidal wash of everything wrong with the legal system. The currents moved in predictable fashion, rushing in at half-past eight, out at noon, in at two, out at five. When Marcus arrived, the lines at the metal detectors were ninety strong. Marcus waited while a rat-haired mother with a squalling baby explained to a bored deputy why her common-law man really didn’t mean to kick the kid. Staffing the courthouse information desk was one of the most hated duties a deputy could pull. The accused and their families loved to use the deputies as a captive audience, practicing their spiel before moving upstairs to the judges’ chambers. The deputy waited for the mother to draw breath, then directed her to the crèche, as no children were permitted in family court unless called there by the judge.
Marcus asked, “Any idea where I could find Anita Harshaw today?”
The deputy gave him a Teflon scan, swiftly classing Marcus as one of the legal opposition. “She usually hangs out on the third floor.”
“Thanks.” He slid around the crush waiting for the elevators and took the stairs. On the third floor he entered a linoleum and fluorescent realm. Two windowless lobbies were filled with grim tension and confusion. Lawyers stood in clusters, smirking effigies in slick suits, telling jokes and shaping last-minute deals.
Anita Harshaw was an alpaca-draped blonde who lived and breathed divorce work. She outweighed Marcus by a hundred pounds and accented her size with bulky knits. The attorney spotted his approach and greeted him with “If it isn’t the roller-coaster kid. What is it today, Marcus, you on the rise or the fall?”
“I want to talk with you about a case you handled.”
“Is it privileged?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’m happy to dish out the dirt.” She stepped out of earshot from the other lawyers. “Who’s the target?”
“The former Erin Steadman.”
“Couldn’t possibly be privileged. Seeing as how I never even met the lady.”
“And now she’s taken other counsel.”
“For what?”
“Custody dispute.”
Up close the woman had a rich floral scent, an unexpected hint of femininity. “You’re kidding me.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“That’ll take about five seconds. The lady calls from somewhere foreign. Germany, wasn’t it?”
“Düsseldorf.”
“See, you know more than I do. She gave me three sentences. Handle the case. No visitation rights, no argument, no alimony, no publicity. Fast and quiet.”
“She didn’t show up for the hearing?”
“I just said I’ve never met the woman. So who’s handling her now?”
“Hamper Caisse.”
She caught her smile before it was fully formed. “Heard about your set-to the other day. Did they really give that old pastor a cheer?”
“Standing ovation.”
“Sorry I missed that one.”
“Any idea why she’d make a case out of custody now?”
“Not a clue. The lady wanted this thing to die a quiet death and disappear.”
“Publicity,” Marcus repeated from his talk with Dale.
“I told her that was the last thing on anybody’s agenda, and I could still represent her interests and seek partial custody.”
“She said no?”
“Wouldn’t even let me finish the sentence.”
Marcus hefted his briefcase a trifle. “The file makes no mention of who was counsel for Dale.”
“On account of how Steadman represented himself. Man showed up looking like the sacrificial lamb. One thing I do remember. When the judge granted him custody, Steadman broke down right there in chambers. Only reason I didn’t feel worse about not going for his jugular.”
“Thanks, Anita.” Marcus started to turn away, then asked, “Any idea why the divorce hearing was set in Raleigh?”
“Same thing all over again. Too much risk of publicity down Wilmington way.”
“Can you give me your impression of Dale Steadman?”
“Other than clearly loving that child, I didn’t have one. We were in and out of Judge Sears’ chambers in less than five minutes.” The dark eyes glinted with experienced humor. “You looking to build a case or find a way out?”
“As soon as I discover the answer to that one,” Marcus replied, “I’ll let you know.”
The courthouse’s rear doors opened onto the Fayetteville Street Mall, a pebble-dash haven for lawyers and bureaucrats and bums. The previous day’s rain bubbled off the surface, turning the air into a sauna laden with molten asphalt and car exhaust. Marcus selected an empty bench beneath a shade elm and pretended to watch the slow-motion theater. If only he knew what to do.
A voice behind him said, “I guess I got it wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Steadman case. You’re not handling it after all.” The young man had a complexion of cinnamon-laced latté. He wore a summer assortment of high fashion—sharply creased gabardine trousers, striped shirt of Egyptian cotton, flash tie. He approached, but did not offer his hand. “Omar Dell, court reporter for the News and Observer.”
“You are definitely jumping the gun here.”
“I called your office. The lady I spoke with did not deny that you were working for New Horizons.”
“Who was that?”
“I did not get her name.”
“You call that a confirmation?”
“Oh, I already had the confirmation.” Pianists’ hands held a gold pen and leather-bound pad. “I was just looking for comment.”
“Sir, you are encroaching on my territory.” Despite all logical reasons to the contrary, Marcus found himself drawn to the man. “You look more like a hotshot trial attorney than a reporter.”
“I’ve been working this beat for almost three years, looking for my ticket to glory.” Dell’s even features showed a dead-set determination. “Last time you created a publicity hurricane, I got shoved aside. This time I’m not so junior.”
“You see television cameras hanging around here?”
“They’ll come. My aunt goes to Deacon’s church. I’ve been hearing the stories about you for two years. Putting you and New Horizons back together is like sticking the detonator into a hydrogen bomb and turning the key.”
“But like you said,” Marcus pointed out, “I’m not certain there’s a case. For me, at least. And if there is, I won’t be working for New Horizons.”
Dark eyes did a partial melt, his disappointment was that keen.
“Couldn’t help but hope, even when I s
aw you sitting out here.”
“Where else should I be?”
“You mean to tell me the man’s doing an end run around Marcus Glenwood?” Omar Dell gripped Marcus’ arm and dragged him from his bench, out into the hammering heat, across the concrete anvil, and into the wash of false coolness. “Hurry now, there’s not a moment to lose.”
As soon as Marcus entered the courtroom, he knew Hamper was dressed for combat. The attorney had a series of tailored silk suits, shades of gray or palest pastels, and kept for days of serious war. Hamper had the flamboyant gestures of a frustrated actor, and used his dress as he would a good prop. These suits shimmered with each motion and had mesmerized many a jury. Lawyers who had mistaken Hamper for a fool sneered when they spotted him so clothed, called him Mirror Man, and pretended not to fear meeting him in court.
When Marcus and Omar Dell slipped into the courtroom, Hamper was saying, “Outside the scope of the divorce hearing, the couple made a private arrangement to jointly share custody.”
Judge Sears watched as Marcus strode down the left-hand aisle, pushed through the barrier, and set his briefcase down upon the empty attorney’s table. “Mr. Glenwood, do you have business before this court?”
“I have been asked to represent Dale Steadman, your honor.”
She frowned at Hamper. “Did you not just inform me you had attempted to contact opposing counsel?”
“Yes, your honor.” Hamper did his best to swallow bitter dismay. “That is, the records showed Mr. Steadman had no representation.”
She gave Marcus a moment to settle, then returned her attention to the file on her desk. “As I recall, there was no mention whatsoever of any such agreement in the divorce decree.”
“There was no need, your honor.” Hamper waved a sheaf of papers. “As this document shows, Ms. Erin Brandt and Mr. Dale Steadman had already agreed on joint custody. Everything was fine, as far as my client was concerned. Then her former husband went back on his side of the bargain.”
Judge Sears waved him forward and accepted the document. She leafed through the pages, then said for the record, “I have before me a notarized document signed by both parties and dated seven months ago. Mr. Glenwood, I assume you have a copy of this agreement?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of any such thing, your honor.”
Hamper passed over a second copy and suggested, “Maybe you need to establish a better line of communication with your client.”
“That will do, Mr. Caisse.”
“Your honor, this agreement states clearly that the couple agree to joint custody. The dates when Ms. Brandt are to have the child were left out because they agreed to work around my client’s singing schedule. Which is precisely why they did not bring this to the court’s attention during the divorce. Ms. Brandt is an opera diva and sings all over the world. This open-date arrangement was only natural.”
Marcus pretended to review the document. All he could clearly focus upon was his client’s signature on the final page, the notary’s seal, and the question ringing through his mind as to who Dale Steadman really was.
Judge Sears set the document aside and demanded, “You are now filing a motion to enforce this agreement?”
“That was Ms. Brandt’s original intention, your honor. But when she returned home last month to try and determine why the agreement was not being followed, she found her husband drunk and dangerously out of control.”
“Objection,” Marcus said. “Hearsay.”
“Your honor, I have witnesses here to show that this scandal is in fact the latest incident in what is a very worrisome trend.”
Marcus pointed out, “It is not customary to have live testimony at these hearings.”
“What they have to say is so important we wanted the court to hear for itself why this child should not be allowed to spend another single hour in the company of this dangerous man.”
“Mr. Glenwood, would you care to respond?”
“Your honor, I thought this was going to be a simple matter of requesting an emergency motion for ex partae custody.” Ex partae was an appeal for the court to take physical custody of the child. This temporary injunction could be requested by any interested party—parent, relatives, foster care, social workers, even the court itself. It granted the court time to determine whether the child was endangered in any way. In this case, the court would require the child to be returned from Germany and delivered into the court’s care, from which a custody ruling would be made.
“Sounds reasonable,” Judge Sears said. “Mr. Caisse?”
“We object in the strongest possible terms, your honor. Because of the seriousness of the situation that would face the child if returned to the father, we ask that you hear what my two witnesses have to say.”
She glanced at Marcus, waiting for an objection. But Marcus remained uncertain what path to take. Given enough room, he was certain Hamper Caisse would grant him the perfect out.
“Proceed, Mr. Caisse.”
“I call Bert Warner to the stand.”
The assistant chief of Wilmington’s fire department was a veteran of hundreds of courtroom battles. Yet his bland Southern drone could not remove the potent quality of that night. By the time he finished describing what he had found at the Steadman dwelling, the crammed courtroom held to a rare hushed state. “We searched the house and found no sign of anyone. Then we discovered Mr. Steadman passed out on his back lawn. We weren’t certain exactly what he was saying, but we gathered the child had been taken somewhere by the mother. The man was so drunk or drugged we had to wake him up four different times. Each time he just repeated himself, saying something about the child, then passed out again.”
Hamper Caisse found one word to be especially delicious. “Drugged.”
“We found no sign of illegal substances in the house. And the man smelled of alcohol. But he was so far gone …” The chief shrugged. “The fourth time we woke him up, he spent a while surveying the house, then asked us to help him back to his boat. He passed out again there.”
“You made this journey up from Wilmington on your own accord and at your own expense, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell the court why?”
“I have three daughters of my own. The youngest has just turned two.”
Hamper resumed his seat. “Your witness.”
Marcus’ natural curiosity overcame the desire to distance himself. “Sir, did you happen to find any evidence of the fire being deliberately set?”
“Nothing that first night. When we returned the next day, Mr. Steadman had already called in workers. Mr. Steadman said he would cover the cost of reconstruction himself, rather than wait for us and the insurance people to sign off on our investigation.” His tone expressed clearly what he thought of the whole process. “Said he wanted to have the place ready when his daughter returned. Which is why I decided to come and testify.”
“No further questions.”
“You may step down, Mr. Warner.”
“Your honor, I call Russell Dermont to the stand.”
Dermont was an oddly assembled man. He matched Marcus’ six-four frame, but draped it with an additional hundred and fifty pounds of pure lard. His chin was lost in the pouch that obliterated the knot of his tie. His silver hair formed a waxed wave over a very large dome. His palm-sized ears were so flat they looked webbed to his skull. Delicate lips appeared stolen from a smaller woman.
“You are chairman of Dermont Industries, is that not correct?”
“Yes.”
“You also served three terms as president of the Wilmington Chamber of Commerce.”
“That’s right.”
“We are indeed most grateful that you would take the time to join us today, sir.” Hamper rose and began pacing. Each foot was lifted with exaggerated care, his knobby knees bunching beneath the shimmering suit. “How long have you known Dale Steadman?”
“Ever since he was the star fullback at the University of
North Carolina at Wilmington. Met him a few times, usually when he was invited to some city function or another. He’s come and gone several times over the years. The first I knew about him showing up in town again was when he bought that island off Towles Road. Paid a ton of money from what I heard.”
Even the witness paused in anticipation of Marcus’ objection to the evident hearsay. But the impetus was not there.
“You say he paid over the odds,” Hamper Caisse prodded.
“That boy just spent and spent and spent. Place has got a six-car garage, boathouse, poolhouse, and his very own old-timey plank bridge. Word is, the bridge alone cost him half a million dollars. Spent almost four million more on the house. Had two architects and three contractors working on it at one point or another. I know on account of how one was my cousin. Had to have the best of everything. Got this one room just for a piano. Thing cost four hundred thousand dollars, I know that’s a fact on account of how it was in the papers. Boy was plain crazy. Spent his money like a drug king.”
This time, even Judge Sears turned and waited for Marcus to speak up. When he remained silent, Hamper drew his little two-step closer to the witness stand. “What does the local business community think of Dale Steadman?”
“They don’t think any more of him than they have to.”
“Now that is a strange thing to my ears. I mean, here you’ve got Wilmington’s only former pro football player. A homegrown hero like that, I’d expect you to say he’s been ushered into the top echelon.”
Dermont had the restless quality of a man dealing with a deep-seated irritant, one he could not entirely suppress. He kneaded the chair arms, shifted his weight to emphasize the end of each sentence, crossed and uncrossed his legs, straightened his tie, pulled at the skin that ticked by his right eye. “When he came back to town, there were folks who invited him and his new wife just about everywhere. He was offered a chance to join the alumni committee, the local clubs, you name it. He turned them all down flat. Those of us who remember the first time he came back, we just held our peace.”
Winner Take All Page 5
