He waited until Mrs. Folley had completed her check and risen to her feet. She pointed at the central button in a vast array of dials and switches and said, “Push that and it will run.”
“Thank you. Please, if you would return to the stand.” Then he turned the photograph, and set the picture on the easel.
It was only as he turned back that he knew they had chosen wisely.
Mrs. Folley had not moved.
She stood staring at the photograph. It was the first time she had ever seen Gloria Hall anywhere except on the video. Her attention was rapt. The fact that her face revealed no emotion whatsoever did not matter. With her, the jury’s attention was drawn to study a black woman in her midtwenties, poised upon the bottom step of a well-appointed house, dressed in a fashionable cocktail gown, her head thrown back and her eyes closed with the pleasure of laughing with all her body and mind and spirit. Marcus saw a number of the jury smile in return. They had no choice. Gloria’s joy challenged one and all.
He said merely, “Mrs. Folley, could I please ask you to resume your seat upon the stand.”
The woman moved in jerky stages, a puppet hung by knotted threads. It was only when she was reseated and searching her purse for a handkerchief that she sniffed. Once. But it was enough to draw all the jury back to her and away from Gloria, enough to reveal the tears streaming down her flat, hard face.
Marcus pushed the button.
This time Gloria was no longer hidden by lights. The image was vividly clear. The laughing young woman was gone. Her hair was so matted that one side of her head appeared shaved. A deep bruise painted one cheek with a nightmare bloom. Her lips were so puffed and misshapen that they snagged on each word. Her left ear was crusted with dried blood. She was battered to the point of being scarcely recognizable. The same, yet Gloria Hall no longer. The change, heightened by the poster standing alongside the television screen, brought such gasps from the jury that Austin Hall’s own agonized moan was scarcely heard.
“Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad. I am fine. Everything is fine here. I am staying here awhile. I am working. I study hard. I am fine. I need money for my work. Send money now. Send money and I will be … fine. I am happy. Send money. I want to be left alone. But send money. A hundred thousand dollars. Send it to the Hong Kong branch of the Guangzhou Bank, account four-five-five-seven-two-two. I am happy. Send the money. Do it now.”
Marcus waited a long moment after the screen went blank to turn off the machine. He turned and gave Gloria’s parents a very long stare, as long as he dared, willing the jury to look with him. There was nothing more to be said. The realization that he was approaching the end of his line of witnesses left him neither jubilant nor drained. He was too depleted for anything except the realization that the case was no longer his. “No further questions.”
Marcus returned to his seat. Logan and Suzie Rikkers rushed forward and plucked the photograph from the easel. They stowed both behind their own table, then pushed the television stand back out of view. Each time she passed, Suzie Rikkers raked Marcus with her furious gaze. In the moment’s silence, Marcus finally understood why Logan kept bringing her forward, why the warning was being made. His rising fear was such that he did not even hear the questioning or the testimony, did not object once to Logan’s furious tirade. He remained seated and staring at his hands, seeing only the horror that now lay revealed. When Logan finally reseated himself, Judge Nicols twice had to ask for Marcus to call his next witness.
Rising to his feet was the hardest point thus far in the case. Marcus said the words because he had no choice, because the pieces were laid out and the next move foreordained, “Plaintiff requests a special hearing in chambers.”
THIRTY-FIVE
THE HALLWAY from the courtroom to the judge’s private chambers was lined with old Norman Rockwell prints. The prints had followed Judge Nicols from one set of chambers to another. In her early days there had been a great deal of speculation about them—how they had been chosen to appease the white voters who might not like having a hyperintelligent, uppity black woman reigning over a courtroom. But those who knew Judge Nicols were certain she did it for herself alone.
Judge Nicols’ conference room seated eighteen at an oval table and another dozen in leather chairs around the perimeter. She did not bother to shuck her robes, nor to wait until she had seated herself to say, “All right, Mr. Glenwood. Let’s hear what this is all about.”
Marcus found it harder to ignore Suzie Rikkers now that the presence behind her presence was known. “Your Honor, we feel that the case as it currently stands requires an expansion in the number of defendants.”
Logan huffed his frustrated rage. The scalding that the video had given his case remained evident in his voice. “Your Honor, this is patently absurd. We have the two senior vice presidents of the North Carolina company currently present. This charge he’s leveling against the board is ridiculous.”
“I was speaking,” Marcus replied quietly, “of General Zhao Ren-Fan.”
The moment’s silence was not all he had expected, nor was the shocked expression on Logan’s face. Marcus turned and studied his opponent carefully, ignoring Suzie as best he could. Logan knew, Marcus finally decided. The stupefaction was good theater, but theater just the same. The defense knew.
But Logan merely said, “What?”
“General Zhao Ren-Fan,” Marcus repeated quietly. “The man named in the corporate documents as head of the factory in China. The man our witness claimed was proprietor and chief operator of Factory 101.”
Logan turned back to the judge. “This entire case is a travesty of federal jurisprudence. This latest absurdity only shows that Mr. Glenwood will go to any and all lengths to subvert the good name of my client.” Logan tossed an exasperated glance at Marcus. “Just how is he planning to extend the court’s jurisdiction to include someone situated more than nine thousand miles away?”
Marcus’ trial sense clamored that none of this was the surprise Logan was pretending it to be. There was a carefully rehearsed quality to the man’s shock and outrage. Marcus nodded once. It was all the confirmation he needed, all he would probably ever have, that he had finally arrived at the secret they had so viciously sought to hide.
“Your Honor, the last conversation I had with Ashley Granger, the Washington attorney who was murdered—”
“Here we go again,” Logan blasted. “First of all, I have spoken with the Washington police, who categorically deny that the evidence they hold suggests wrongdoing of any sort. The man was killed in a tragic highway accident. Secondly, the plaintiff’s counsel seeks to use this man’s demise in all sorts of tangential ways, tying together an argument that holds nothing but hot air.”
Marcus sprang what he was certain would be a surprise only to the judge. “Your Honor, two weeks ago General Zhao Ren-Fan took up the position of defense attaché to the Chinese embassy in Washington, D.C.”
Judge Nicols’ astonishment was undisguised. “He’s here?”
“Right under the court’s nose, Your Honor. This was the information Ashley Granger had uncovered the day he was killed.” And what Gloria Hall had discovered, Marcus knew beyond a shadow of doubt, that had made her journey to China so urgent. She had known of this, all right. As did the defense.
“Your Honor!” Logan’s voice demanded the judge’s attention. “We object on a number of grounds. First of all, the information Glenwood used to present this joint venture as reality is anything but sound. His evidence was nothing more than a photocopy from a so-called Chinese government office nobody has ever heard of. It is not admissible evidence. And secondly, the concept of drawing a foreign diplomat to North Carolina on what is essentially a missing-persons case, and doing so on such highly questionable evidence, will make this court a laughingstock.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed, but Marcus could not determine whether she shared his conviction that this was not news, for all she said was, “I am not laughing, Mr. Kendall.”
; “No, Your Honor, I did not wish to imply that you were.” But Logan did not back down. “I merely wish to save Your Honor the risk of being shamed by an adverse ruling on appeal.”
“How kind of you.”
Marcus wrested back control of the situation. “Your Honor, a corporation acts only through individuals. I merely want this case to include the people who were actually in charge of the decision that led to Gloria Hall’s disappearance.”
“You have proven none of this,” Logan lashed back.
“On the contrary. We have shown through its past unscrupulous practices that the U.S. company is indeed capable of colluding to kidnap Gloria Hall, precisely because she was tracking down these practices and planned to bring them to light. And we have demonstrated that New Horizons specifically chose to work with Factory 101 because this Chinese group threatened the one thing they hold in greatest esteem, their profit.”
“Your Honor, I protest. He continues to besmirch my client’s good name with no basis whatsoever.”
Glenwood pressed home. “Profit, Your Honor. That was the motive behind all of this. Profit and power. General Zhao joined in because he shared both a lust for profit and the power to hold and abuse these workers. There was a pattern and practice to both companies’ actions, which was precisely why they were successful partners, and exactly why they were forced to do away with Gloria Hall.”
Judge Nicols’ gaze tightened. “Do away with her?”
“Kidnap and hold her against her will,” Marcus amended, though he remained shattered by what he had finally admitted to himself.
“Your Honor, we object—”
“Enough.” She used the flat of her palm as an effective gavel. “I accept the plaintiff’s request as valid. The evidence supports his claim of extended jurisdiction over General Zhao as a necessary codefendant.”
“We will appeal this ruling, Your Honor.” Logan’s hoarseness revealed the cost of his defeat.
“Appeal all you like. In the meantime, papers will be served on the Chinese embassy this very afternoon.”
Logan clutched for another rope. “He will claim diplomatic immunity.”
“That may well be so. But we can nonetheless subpoena the man and require him to stand before this court.” Judge Nicols rose to her feet. “We will now adjourn until nine o’clock tomorrow. You gentlemen are dismissed.”
THE CALL CAME THROUGH at a quarter to six the next morning. As Logan groped blindly for the phone, his bedmate moaned and rolled over. He complained, “This better be good.”
“And you better be awake,” growled the caller.
“One second.” Logan recognized the voice instantly. As he slid from bed his current girlfriend called out another man’s name. He glanced down, caught by the sudden decision that it was time to trade her in for a newer model. Four weeks was long enough for both of them.
Logan carried the cordless phone out of the bedroom and over to the hall window. Dawn remained a faint rumor on the horizon. He pressed the phone to his chest and took a series of steadying breaths. He was not hesitating in order to wake up. He had never been more awake in his entire life. He had been expecting this call, but still the sheer potential of what it meant left his heart hammering. Another breath, one more. He lifted the receiver again, hoping he could keep the tremor out of his voice. “All right. I’m listening.”
The head of the China Trade Council said, “Whatever you want, Kendall. I have the board’s full backing on this.”
The caller held an admiral’s gruffness, the bold commanding grip on power that reflected decades of leading a corporate army. Logan knew the man now. After the first call, Logan had ordered an associate to research the man’s background. Up until the previous year, he had been chairman and chief executive officer of one of the nation’s top fifty companies, a behemoth that was into everything from cars to home financing.
Logan responded, “The problem is the same as the first time we talked.”
“Double your fees. Triple them for all I care.” The man chose not to hear Logan. “Take this additional client and name your price.”
“I appreciate your offer, sir. But accepting General Zhao as a second client may not be in New Horizons’ best interests.”
“Forget them!” The bark suggested Logan was treading on thin ice by even questioning the bid. “It’s their fault we’re in this mess to begin with!”
“Actually, sir, General Zhao—”
“New Horizons was the one that initiated the whole deal!” The chairman of the China Trade Council struggled to rein in his legendary temper. “Look, Kendall. I’m telling you how it is. You understand? Now name your price to include General Zhao as a client.”
Logan knew the moment had arrived. “I want to be named outside counsel.”
“What?”
The fact that he had finally managed to throw the chairman gave him confidence. “Not just of the China Trade Council. Your former company has two subsidiaries in North Carolina. I want them too.” When the chairman did not respond, he finished with a certainty he did not feel. “Take it or leave it.”
To his astonishment, the chairman laughed. “You’ve been up nights planning this out, haven’t you.”
“I couldn’t afford to give it that kind of time, sir. I have a case to win, remember?”
Another laugh. “All right. It’s a deal.”
“I want it in writing.” This time the tremor could not be kept out of his voice.
“Sure you do. I’ll have my people draw it up and courier it down to you today.” The humor died, choked down to grating fury. “Just win this case, Kendall. And bury that Glenwood. Bury him deep. Right down to the center of the earth.”
THIRTY-SIX
MARCUS AWOKE to the deep black of some predawn hour, a time so vague and fretful even the poets of yore had forsaken the task of naming it. He was not sorry, though he had worked late and his need for sleep was as strong as a starving man’s hunger. He decided against an early run. His mind had already tuned in to the day and the work ahead, so he made coffee and took it to his office. Papers were strewn across his desk and the next room’s larger table. The night before they had seemed adequate. Now they flouted the truth of what had fueled his labors. Suzie Rikkers hid in the shadows, waiting for him to return to court, eager to pounce.
The phone crashed about the house, as though the machines were all triggered to shout alarm if ever used before dawn. A merry voice asked, “Do I not wake you again?”
“Dee Gautam,” he said, and took comfort from naming the mystery. “No, this time I beat you.”
The little man rewarded Marcus with a high-pitched giggle, somewhere between the highest note of a pipe organ and a cackle. “Good, very good. You are learning to catch the worm, no?”
“Learning, but let’s leave the worms out of it. What can I do for you?”
“I am calling to say that Chung must leave. He has much fear of the police.”
“Maybe I can help him.”
“Thank you, but no. His problems are all in the past, and his fears are of the kind that do not heal. You understand?”
Marcus picked up his mug, though the coffee was cold and he no longer wished to drink it. “All too well.”
“Yes, you are learning much. It is a good thing and a bad thing, this gift of wisdom.”
“The wisdom is fine,” Marcus responded. “It’s all the baggage I have problems with.”
“We will speak of this another time, yes? For now, I am calling at this dark hour to say that today you must find another way to go to your court.”
Marcus settled into his chair. “Run that one by me again.”
“Your car will not be safe for the drive today, oh very much no. You may call this Chung’s parting gift to his new friend.” Dee Gautam hung up.
Marcus set down the receiver and spent a long moment wondering at all the sharp-ended farewells the little man had been forced to make. Then he picked up the phone once more, but set it down again and
rose to his feet. Darren would want to be awake when the sheriff’s deputy arrived to discover the bomb attached to their car.
THEY DEPARTED for Raleigh in Amos Culpepper’s official car. Darren was squeezed into the front passenger seat with his knees bumping against the dashboard computer, the radar gun, and the radio. He did not seem to mind at all. At Amos’ suggestion Marcus had spread a towel over the backseat before settling in. With every bounce the low-sprung seat gave off an aroma of sweat and sickness and fear. Marcus listened to Amos give Darren a guided tour around the car’s assorted toys, from the siren to the pump-action shotgun to the nightstick with its numerous dents and tooth marks. Marcus then drew out his cellular phone and spent twenty minutes talking strategy with Charlie Hayes. It was only when Darren hit the siren that Marcus felt obliged to explain why they were riding to work in a cop car.
Charlie heard him out, then demanded, “Did they find a bomb?”
“Attached to the starter motor. First place they looked. Said it was very professional.”
“Well, hey, that makes everything all right, then, don’t it. Long as you’re getting blown up by somebody who knows his business.”
“We’re okay, Charlie.”
“This time. How’d you find out about it, anyway?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you later.”
“If you live that long. You take care, son. I’m fine handling one witness at a time, but this is your trial, you hear what I’m saying? And it’s a big one.”
Scarcely had Marcus cut the connection when the phone rang again. As soon as he answered, Kirsten said in a rush, “We have to talk.”
Marcus sighed his way deeper into the seat, hoping the scents would not linger. “No we don’t.”
Of everything that he could have said, this was clearly what she had least expected. “I don’t understand. You said you had a lot of questions.”
The Great Divide Page 32
