The Great Divide

by T. Davis Bunn

  The judge’s gun-barrel gaze swiveled back to Logan, who sneered. “These motions are nothing more than a fishing expedition, Your Honor. Mr. Glenwood doesn’t have a thing to offer at this stage, so he wants to go dig through my client’s records to try to come up with some dirt.”

  “It seems to me our meeting before the magistrate documented the first level of proof,” Marcus countered.

  “Of what,” Logan shot back. “Of sales between a Chinese factory and a U.S. company? Not to mention the fact, Your Honor, that the plaintiff’s evidence consisted of confidential corporate documents. I feel we have a right to know how he got his hands on them.”

  Judge Nicols demanded, “Are you so moving?”

  Logan’s wince showed he had been fearing that question. Marcus understood why. To say yes meant proceeding beyond the frivolous-claim dismissal. To say no meant putting all his eggs in one basket a second time. Which he could not risk doing. “Yes, Your Honor,” he reluctantly allowed. “We move to question the propriety of these documents. Are there employees illegally involved? Has the plaintiff been in contact with hostile unions?”

  “Absolutely not,” Marcus responded.

  “Your Honor, we have a videotape of Mr. Glenwood presenting himself at corporate headquarters, claiming to be an attorney representing an unnamed union!”

  Marcus shot back, “Does your videotape also show how company employees demolished my vehicle and threatened my life?”

  This time Logan’s pain was theatrical. “Your Honor, this is typical of the kind of case this man is trying to bring against us, full of absurd allegations and bald-faced lies.”

  “Mr. Glenwood?”

  “I wanted to see their reaction. One of the allegations we will prove is a pattern of violent past practices. I wanted to view this for myself.”

  She stared at Marcus. Hard. “You went to New Horizons with the intention of deliberately provoking them?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I had not decided whether to take the case. I wanted to see if New Horizons reacted in a manner that would suggest they were capable of kidnapping and severely abusing a young woman.”

  “Your Honor, I object! This is just more fiction cooked up by a man desperate for publicity!”

  “All right, Mr. Kendall.”

  “This is trial by slander, Your Honor.”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Kendall. I am turning down your motion to dismiss.” She picked up her pen. “Being new to the job, I find my docket is almost entirely free. I understand the defense is requesting a speedy trial?”

  “It’s the only way to halt the plaintiff’s ludicrous plans to drag my client through the mud.”

  “I said that was enough.” Mild this time, aware the defense was smarting from the news that the case was headed for the public eye. Her glare was now directed at Marcus, as was the sterner tone. “Mr. Glenwood, this is for the record. I am concerned to see you here, taking up the court’s time with such a matter, acting on your own. Are you sure you are up for this?”

  “I think so, Your Honor.”

  “Well, I have my doubts. I am very familiar with your background. While I might offer you sympathy outside this courtroom, in these chambers I am bound to uphold the law and the rights of everyone involved.” She leaned across her desk. “So I want you to think very hard about taking on this matter. I would hate to be forced to declare you incompetent.”

  Marcus ignored the round-eyed glances among the defense team as best he could. “So would I, Your Honor.”

  “If you violate the rules of this court, I will sanction you heavily. If you mishandle the litigants’ rights and claims in any way, I will personally see that your license comes up for review.” She let that sink in a moment, then leaned back and said, “The defense has requested we move forward with this. I agree. Final pretrial hearings will take place tomorrow morning at nine. Trial is set to begin next week. You people are dismissed.”

  Marcus made his way slowly toward the door, allowing the defense team to draw well ahead. At the doorway he turned and said quietly, “Thank you very much, Judge.”

  Gladys Nicols did not look up from her writing. “Now what do you suppose has got the defense in such an all-fired hurry?”

  “I was just asking myself the same thing.”

  The judge could very well have been speaking to herself. “Must be something mighty big, whatever it is.”

  Marcus nodded and shut the door behind him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE TELEPHONE CALL came in the middle of that same afternoon. Marcus bolted from the house, shouting to Netty words he scarcely heard himself as he raced for the car. He hit ninety miles per hour on the Raleigh highway, and made it to the Halls’ subdivision in record time. He parked down the road, as the drive and the street in front of their house were already blocked by gray government sedans.

  Alma Hall answered the door, tight-lipped and grim. “Thank the heavens above.”

  “You haven’t said anything?”

  “Not a word. But if you’d taken much longer, blood would’ve flowed.”

  “Don’t let them goad you, Alma.”

  “I’m trying.” She led him inside. “Goodness knows, I’m trying just as hard as I know how.”

  Marcus entered the living room and walked straight over to Austin. He said simply, “Hold on.”

  Austin rose with the others. His expression was as tight as his houndstooth necktie. “That man there says they’re going to arrest me.”

  “Wonderful.” Marcus rounded on a roomful of cold gazes. “What a lovely picture that would make for the six o’clock news. Respected members of the black community are jailed for sending money to their missing daughter.”

  The man closest to him had features sharp as his voice. “This is a private meeting.”

  Alma Hall said, “This man is Marcus Glenwood. He is our attorney. And he is a lot more welcome in this house than you are.”

  “I’d like to see some identification, please.” Marcus pulled a pad and pen from his jacket. “From everyone.”

  There were two FBI agents from the Raleigh office, a State Bureau man, a sheriff’s deputy in plainclothes, and an assistant prosecutor from the district attorney’s office. Marcus took his time over the IDs, giving everyone a breather, gently asserting control. “All right. What’s this about pressing charges?”

  “We were informed that a ransom had been paid.” The prosecutor, Wayde Barrett, possessed the aggressive attitude of someone who bullied for pleasure. “That is a felony.”

  “It’s strictly a nuisance charge.” Marcus addressed the FBI agents. “I can’t believe you would be a party to this sham.”

  “Aw, these fellows got roped in the same as me.” The deputy sheriff had the long flat drawl of the Carolina coastal plains. He dangled a white Stetson from the fingers of one hand. “Somebody called the office, said they were making a major arrest, and we needed to be part of the action.” He turned to the silent gray-suited men. “Ain’t that right.”

  This only increased the prosecutor’s ire. “Funding a felonious crime is a serious offense!”

  “This is absolute rubbish,” Marcus told the room.

  “Why don’t we all take a load off,” the deputy suggested.

  All did, save the prosecutor, which left him looking like a soapbox orator. “You could lose your license to practice law for this!”

  The deputy had a long neck with skin so loose it hung like a chicken’s craw over his collar. But his eyes were sharp as ice-blue blades, and there was not an ounce of fat on his six-foot frame. He spoke to Marcus as though they were the only people in the room. “You’re that feller who moved back over to his granddaddy’s place in Rocky Mount.”

  “That’s right.”

  He hitched up one trouser leg, revealing a lizard skin boot. “You as big a troublemaker as they been saying?”

  “Absolutely,” Marcus replied. “Who is they?”

  “Aw, yo
u know how talk goes ’round in these parts.” The deputy leaned forward, offered a hard-callused hand. “Amos Culpepper.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The man’s grip was like iron. “Is that why they sent you, to warn me?”

  “I’m not in the warning business, Mr. Glenwood. One thing I’m not looking forward to when the sheriff retires next spring and I take over is dealing with folks who’d like to tell me my business.”

  “I had a local businessman bring a man by my house the other night. A man who rammed my car when I visited New Horizons. The pair threatened me.” Marcus’ voice grated in his own ears. “I didn’t like it either.”

  Exasperated at being ignored, the prosecutor snapped, “How about we talk about something that matters!”

  The deputy disregarded him entirely. He asked Marcus, “You file a complaint?”

  “There was nothing substantive said or done. But the threat was there.”

  “You got names?”

  “The spokesman was Hank Atterly. He called the muscle Lonnie.”

  The prosecutor flopped down on the sofa opposite Marcus and fumed, “This is absurd.”

  “Know Hank well. The other name doesn’t ring a bell.” The deputy swished his tongue about like someone searching for a chaw that wasn’t there. “You get a good look at that other fellow?”

  “Lean, reddish gray crew cut, big nasty pickup, redneck accent.” Marcus heard the wreck and the threat anew. “There was a second man at the New Horizons attack. He was heavyset and balding. I only saw him for an instant in my rearview mirror before he broke the back windshield with a baseball bat.”

  The prosecutor demanded, “Can we get back to the business at hand?”

  The deputy showed him a cold eye. “I don’t know what your business is, bub. Mine is fighting crime.” Back to Marcus. “Lots of local families eat food bought with New Horizons paychecks. Looks to me like you’d stay healthy longer if you didn’t blow smoke straight in their faces.”

  “I plan to steer clear of them, don’t worry.” Marcus turned to the prosecutor. “My guess is you’re out here without your superior’s authorization. This is a harassment charge that could clearly backfire on you.”

  The prosecutor sneered. “Word is, you’ve got no cause to be telling anybody the finer points of law, Glenwood.”

  Marcus let that one pass, something that came much easier these days. “All we want is to bring the Halls’ daughter home. You should be helping us, not making threats.”

  “Don’t try and tell me my job!” The prosecutor had one of those faces that reddened easily. “There’s nothing to keep me from charging you as well!”

  “On what grounds?”

  The prosecutor searched his associates’ faces, found no support. He huffed to his feet, snapped, “You’ll be hearing from my office, Glenwood.” When the front door slammed, everyone in the room breathed easier.

  The two fibbies rose, and the elder said, “We should have a report from the embassy in Beijing sometime next week.”

  Alma’s ire had drained away, leaving her voice flat and tired. “You think it will do any good?”

  The agents exchanged glances. “In all honesty, I don’t hold out much hope.” When they arrived at the front door, the agent went on, “We’ve ordered a full-time watch on the account that received your payment. If the Hong Kong authorities do their job, we should be able to track who withdraws the funds.”

  Amos Culpepper waited until the agents had departed before saying to Alma and Austin, “I’ve heard talk of this prosecutor fellow. None of it good. I’m sorry you folks had to go through this.” To Marcus, “He’s ambitious and he’s dumb. Makes him open to the wrong kind of offer. You need anything, you let me know.”

  In the void left by Culpepper’s departure, Marcus offered the only hope he could. “We have the final hearing in the judge’s chambers tomorrow. There shouldn’t be any surprises, but I’ll call when I get back and let you know.”

  RANDALL WALKER was well aware that the greatest power was often the most secretive. Which was one reason he had eventually left the bench. Randall’s finest thrill in earlier days had come from looking down on the defendant and declaring sentence. But that power had been limited by law and the public spotlight, and in time it had grown stale.

  He had studied Machiavelli for years, knew his writings well enough to quote entire passages as though they were his own original thoughts. There was a man who understood where real power resided. Let others lay claim to the throne or boardroom or television lights. Sooner or later they would find their roles threatened, and the public eye too constrictive. They would then turn to him. And each time it happened, his reach grew wider. Once this New Horizons case was over, Randall’s power would span continents and national boundaries, reach across the great divide of history and national interests. All Randall had to do was win. And win big.

  Which made his reaction to the detective’s report even more surprising. Hamper Caisse called just as he was leaving for dinner with a client, and announced, “Stanstead’s vanished. I had a man on her, trying for an intercept. He lost her.”

  Randall felt almost none of the expected gall and ire. Instead, as he waved for his wife to go on out to the car and grant him privacy, what he felt most at that particular moment was anticipation. “And how, pray tell, did he manage that?”

  “He says she was on to him. I’ve used him before, the man’s a pro. He says she left home and went to work, carried nothing but her purse. He broke into her car, found nothing. Not a file, not a toothbrush. She came out of the charity office around four, went into a local café, never came out. A half hour went by, then he goes in, she’s not there.”

  “She’s on her way down here.” Randall had never before resorted to violence. Never had a genuine reason. But he’d always wondered what it would be like to confront a threat that required a physical response. Now that the moment had arrived, he found himself tasting an almost erotic thrill. “And she’s got more information for Glenwood.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybes about this one.” Time for a decision. And action. He had heard stories about what Hamper Caisse would do if asked. Having such power at his beck and call left him slightly breathless. “All right. Leave that and come down. Tonight. I need you here.”

  “You want me to track the girl in Rocky Mount?”

  “I very much doubt,” Randall replied, “you’ll have the time.”

  MARCUS SAT ON HIS PORCH and watched the day fade. He wore a ragged sweatshirt and cutoffs and a sheen of drying sweat. His ears still rang from the mower he had bought off a neighbor for twenty-five dollars. The muffler had long since rusted away, and it roared like a weary machine of war. By the time he finished the two back acres, he was convinced he had overpaid.

  The autumn twilight tarried longer than Marcus felt was natural. Streetlights glowed in faint mimicry of the sky’s final colors. Trees and neighboring houses gradually faded to dark etchings of their former selves. The air smelled of cut grass and smoke from backyard grills, and rang with the clamor of children playing in the street.

  A small, thin shadow separated itself from the nearest tree, and an alien yet familiar voice said, “Your home looks most inviting, Mr. Glenwood. May I join you?”

  Marcus rose to his feet, lifted by the sudden, unnerving jolt. He recalled a blank hallway in Washington, and solid steel doors leading into a whitewashed world of silent terrors. “Is that Dee Gautam?”

  “Remarkable, Mr. Glenwood. Most remarkable.” The slender shadow approached and took on form, beginning with his smile. “You continue to surprise me. First I think you are nothing more than some American lawyer visiting our offices like another person would travel to the zoo. I look at you and I think, here is someone very comfortable in his living room with wall-to-wall carpet and big-screen television. Too comfortable to worry about strangers suffering someplace very far away.”

  The steps did not creak as he climbed to the veranda. Dee Gautam
stood smiling up at Marcus. “Then I hear that this strange American lawyer does not turn from a case he cannot win. No. He asks many questions and finds surprising answers. So I decide to come and see if he will listen to my warning, and I discover that this strange American lawyer lives alone in a neighborhood where almost all others are black.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “May I sit down, Mr. Glenwood?”

  “Sorry, of course, you surprised me, showing up like this.” He pulled over a second hickory rocker and set it so he could face the man square on. “You said something about—”

  “Why do you choose to live here, Mr. Glenwood?”

  Marcus seated himself, decided to let Dee Gautam chart the conversation’s course. For now. “My grandfather built this place for his wife. Back then the area was different.”

  His visitor was so small he sat as a child would in the straight-backed rocker, sliding up to the edge so his feet could push against the floor. The chair drummed lightly over the uneven boards. “Still I am not understanding, Mr. Glenwood. Why are you choosing to live in this place?”

  Beyond the reach of the porch light, darkness gathered and conquered. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Thank you, no. I am not able to stay very long.”

  “My grandparents raised me. When they died, I kept the place. I’d come out here and work a little, but not enough. After an … accident, I decided to come back here to live. I’ve been restoring it ever since.”

  Gautam’s hands reached out to settle upon the chair arms. In the half-light the pitted scars seemed to run the entire way through his wrists. “Please excuse me for the repetition, Mr. Glenwood, but I am trying so hard to understand. Why are you choosing to come back here?”

  “You mean why do I live in what has become a black neighborhood?” When the little man simply rocked back and forth, using the chair and his entire body to nod, Marcus went on, “Some people resent my living here. Especially the young men who don’t have work. You see them gathered on some of the porches. They watch cars with white drivers, and give me this look like, well, like I don’t belong and never will.”