“This case is now vastly different from what it was in the beginning. And what we said earlier does not apply so clearly anymore. We have new defendants that the court in its wisdom has ordered us to include. But we are in this together, ladies and gentlemen. And together we are going to find out the truth. My job is to lead you through this process. You are judges of the facts. And though this has become far more global an issue, and far more complex, still I am certain that we are all up to the task of finding out just what these facts are. We are on a truth-seeking mission here. And when we are done, we are going to talk again. At that time, I hope we will have some hard facts upon which to base a valid judgment.
“The lawyers for the plaintiff have filled the air with some pretty outlandish contentions, suggesting that somehow my clients are at fault. Mind you, their accusations against my clients are preposterous. Their lawyers, ladies and gentlemen, are claiming that my clients have formed some amorphous ties to a mystery factory sitting on the other side of the world. And somehow this factory has secreted away a woman named Gloria Hall. It is vital that you remember this one fact, ladies and gentlemen, because there has been a lot of smoke blown in this trial. The one issue we are here to determine is: What, if any, responsibility do my clients have in the disappearance of this woman.
“One thing is certain. Up to now we have been watching a trial by ambush. The plaintiff’s lawyers have repeatedly bent the rules of procedure by introducing new witnesses, new evidence, even new defendants. We have been so caught up in this widening series of attacks that we may have lost sight of what we are here for. But all that is over and done with. The plaintiff has rested—it’s no surprise he’s tired after all the stunts he’s pulled. Now it’s our turn.
“You hold me to my promise now,” Logan said, winding down. “We are going to uphold the American system of justice. We’re going to roll up our sleeves and look hard for the facts. And when you go home at night—and remember the judge’s injunction not to discuss this case with anyone—as you sit there and you relax, you can rest assured that my team and I are going to continue our hunt for the truth.”
Logan turned and walked back to the table, inspected his notes for a long moment of punctuation, then said, “The defense calls Ms. Stella Gladding.”
The woman’s skin was close to the same shade as the Chinese general’s. But in her case the sallowness came from a very rough life. The suggestion of hard living was heightened by the voice that gave her name and took the oath. Stella Gladding sounded as though she had gargled that morning with bourbon and ashes.
“Ms. Gladding, you knew Gloria Hall well, is that not so?”
“Very. We roomed together our first two years at Georgetown.”
“Would you please tell the court what she was like?”
“Wild.”
“Gloria Hall was wild.” Logan maintained his position at the podium, swiveling it so that it angled halfway between the witness stand and the jury, slid over just slightly enough that Marcus could not object that Logan was intentionally blocking his view of the witness. “Just how wild, Ms. Gladding?”
“Not only would she try anything,” she replied, “she would do it twice.”
“Objection,” Charlie said, his voice bored, his slouched appearance suggesting that this woman was not worth getting riled over.
“Sustained.” If anything, Judge Nicols responded in a tone flatter than Charlie’s.
Alma shifted in her seat next to Marcus. He glanced over, knowing no warning was possible, no words sufficient. Even so, she nodded without looking his way. She would hold on. To her other side, Austin Hall might as well have been carved from some dark and sorrowful stone.
“Ms. Gladding, did Gloria Hall have any boyfriends?”
“A lot.” She had been prepped well and dressed more carefully still. But no amount of professional makeup or dark-suited grooming could disguise that this was a woman who had seen much and done even more. “They changed from week to week.” A quick little smirk. “Sometimes from hour to hour. Gloria was a real friendly girl.”
Logan asked quietly, “Did Gloria use any drugs?”
“Absolutely.”
“Alcohol?”
“All the time.”
The questioning continued until Gloria Hall had been painted as a full-on party animal, studying little, hanging on to her place at Georgetown through luck and a strong memory. Charlie Hayes seemed to be asleep; Marcus watched because he felt at least one of them should show they cared. Logan’s problem was that the longer the witness remained on the stand, the stronger grew the woman’s bored carelessness. Her voice grew harsher, the answers tighter, as though she needed a drink or a smoke or something stronger. Badly.
Logan realized this, and as he walked back to his table he said, “Defense requests a brief recess.”
Judge Nicols was having none of it. She shook her head, her eyes glued to the witness. “We’ll finish with this witness first.”
Logan had no choice but to say, “Your witness.”
Charlie rose from his slouched position, his voice emerging before his legs were fully under him. “Ms. Gladding, you say you knew Gloria through your first two years at Georgetown, is that right?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And just how long ago was that?”
“Four years.”
He smiled, as though the answer amused him. “You’re sure it was four, now?”
“I just said …” The eyes searched. “No. Five.”
“If my math is correct, Ms. Gladding, it was more like six. Isn’t that right.”
“Five, six, fifteen, it doesn’t matter. I remember Gloria. Real well.”
“Fine. That’s just fine. It’s just that, well, a lot can change in five or six years, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe. But not Gloria.”
“No?” Charlie limped his way over to lean upon the corner of the jury box. “Ms. Gladding, could you enlighten me as to why you and Gloria Hall stopped rooming together?”
“I moved out.”
“Is that a fact. My understanding was that Miss Hall was the one who did the moving.”
The hand that rose to flick at her hair shook slightly. “Gloria started getting seriously weird. I couldn’t take it.”
“Weird.” Charlie cast a glance at the jury, then limped over to the plaintiff’s table and accepted the sheet of paper Marcus held. It contained a photocopied statement of court proceedings. But the witness did not know this. “Ms. Gladding, a careful inspection of Gloria Hall’s university transcript shows that she underwent a marked transformation at the start of her junior year.”
“I’ll say.”
“In fact, from that semester on, Gloria Hall’s record shows that she earned almost straight A’s for the remainder of her undergraduate career.”
“She got into this crazy religious phase. It was worse than the guys. Always talking about God and stuff. Wanting me to come with her to church, treating it like an AA meeting. Had to go every night, like she was afraid of falling off the wagon otherwise.”
Charlie kept up his slow nod long after Stella Gladding had stopped talking. “Are you aware that Gloria Hall went on to graduate from Georgetown with honors, and earned herself a full scholarship for her graduate studies?”
“At that price,” the woman sneered. “Who cares?”
“And what, may I ask, was your standing at graduation?”
“Objection,” Logan declared. “Irrelevant.”
“Overruled. The witness is instructed to answer the question.”
Stella Gladding flicked her head in careless irritation. “I flunked out my senior year.”
Charlie made his way back to the table. “No further questions.”
MOST OF THE DAY was made up of such small combats. The defense attacked with one foray after another. Charlie countered with a few quick questions, gentle in tone, decisive in result. Yet Marcus watched as his case gradually unraveled before his eyes, kno
wing there was nothing he could do about it, knowing the worst was still to come. He did not need to look at the defense table to know Suzie Rikkers’ eyes were upon him.
Logan’s parade continued with a Washington, D.C. street cop who handled the beat around the Chinese embassy. He was followed by a security guard from the embassy’s permanent detail, then a court-appointed D.C. lawyer, and finally a prison guard for the city’s female lockup. All attested to the trouble they had experienced with Gloria Hall. In a space of fourteen months she had been arrested nine different times, on charges ranging from obstructing traffic to unlawful assembly to rioting to resisting arrest to causing mayhem while incarcerated. Charlie’s cross-examination was focused solely upon showing that all charges had related to activities taking place around the Chinese embassy, or in conjunction with visiting Chinese dignitaries. The defense countered by showing that the charges had arisen from a variety of Chinese-related issues, everything from imprisoned dissidents and freeing Tibet to missing missionaries and trade. A picture slowly developed of an angry young woman determined to make as much trouble for China as possible. Any pretext would do, so long as China was the target.
The clock showed a few minutes past four when Logan stood and announced, “Your Honor, the defense requests that the jury be dismissed for the day, and that we be granted a moment to lodge a private motion.”
Charlie leaned over and muttered, “Here it comes.”
IN CHAMBERS, Logan could scarcely bring himself to wait until Judge Nicols had settled behind her desk. “Your Honor, we wish to invoke the Best-Evidence Rule, and call Marcus Glenwood to the stand.”
In a truly bleak moment, Marcus found the judge’s shock mildly gratifying. “Come again?”
“Best evidence, Your Honor. It requires the plaintiff to present the original sources of all critical evidence.”
Judge Nicols gathered herself and said peevishly, “Do not presume to instruct the court on points of jurisprudence, Mr. Logan.”
“No, Your Honor.” Logan remained utterly smooth, totally unfazed. It was superb strategy. He knew it, so did the judge. Flawless. The only reason he had permitted Suzie Rikkers to flaunt an open warning was because there was no way of derailing this train. “The plaintiff’s lawyer has repeatedly stated that a critical source of his most vital evidence was a man we have never been allowed to question.”
“No surprise there,” Charlie Hayes drawled. “Seeing as how your boys did him in.”
“I object to the tone and the statement, Your Honor.” But Logan was too pleased with himself to be angry.
Judge Nicols switched her ire to the chamber’s other side. “Mr. Hayes, another such outburst and I will have you removed from this court.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.” Charlie took a long moment adjusting his bifocals. “And I apologize to these people if I was mistaken.”
Logan let that one slide by. “This attorney, Your Honor, Ashley Granger was his name. He apparently sourced any number of critical points for the plaintiff. We know that from the counsel’s own repeated statements. We desperately need to get to the bottom of all this. Since Mr. Glenwood was the only person here who spoke directly with the deceased, we are more than justified in wanting him to give testimony.”
Marcus could not help glancing over. Suzie Rikkers no longer glared in response. Instead, she stared at him with eyes slitted by a tiny smile that compressed her lips into an almost invisible line. The woman looked to be approaching ecstasy.
“Very well.” Judge Nicols gave Marcus a searching, worried inspection. “Does counsel for the plaintiff wish further time to prepare?”
Charlie Hayes responded as Marcus had instructed, though the old man sounded almost bereaved. “No thank you, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Kendall, this is a highly unorthodox move, one that will be held to the light of national publicity.” She was trying to keep the concern from her voice, but not succeeding. “I expect you to conduct yourself in the most professional manner.”
“Of course, Your Honor.” Logan almost purred the words.
As Marcus rose and started for the door, Suzie Rikkers mouthed one word: Tomorrow.
THIRTY-NINE
THOUGH THE DUSK was chill enough to bite his lungs, Marcus kept his window open for the entire journey home. He breathed the night in deep, trying to rid his lungs of courtroom dust. His left arm in its cast felt heavy and lumpish. His heart thudded slow and irregular. He was not mortally wounded yet, but the lesions were multiplying and their effect was telling.
Because of his position in the passenger seat, he heard the roar and recognized the coming angle of attack. Which gave him enough time to grip the edge of the car roof with his one good hand and shout, “Here they come!”
The roar turned into a night-driven behemoth that slammed into their right rear fender so hard the Jeep’s tail end slewed clear off the road and started toward the highway’s median ditch. But Marcus’ shout had been enough warning for Darren to grip the wheel with shoulders tight, arms strong and ready. He worked the wheel and floored the motor so that it screamed and pushed them back onto the highway.
Marcus felt more than heard a rending of metal as they parted ways with their attacker. He risked a glance behind him, saw a heavy automobile with tinted windows, a Cadillac or Town Car or Marquis, then heard the motor whining and said, “Hang on!”
The hammer blow was less jarring this time, as Darren timed his swerve just right. The attacker caught the Jeep’s tail and ripped the bumper free so that its bolts popped with the sound of gunfire and the silver rod went clanging off into the dark behind them. The car veered away to miss the falling debris, and Marcus heard the more powerful engine race up alongside. “Faster!”
“Can’t!” Darren was hunched up over the wheel, as though squeezing it might press a trace of additional speed from the Jeep.
Marcus risked another glance, saw that the car’s long nose was almost in line with their rear door. “Hit the brakes!”
Darren responded so fast he might have thought of the same thing at the very same moment. His leg muscles knotted like tree trunks as he used both feet to ram the brake into the floorboard. The Jeep screamed and shuddered violently, but remained upright. The enemy’s car raced by and was enveloped in its own cloud of burning rubber.
The attackers sliced across the highway, moving sideways, blocking the way ahead. Marcus shouted, but Darren was already slapping the gearshift into reverse.
Marcus watched the car’s window roll down. A long rod protruded and glinted dully in the headlights. He caught sight of a face behind the barrel, gray and cold as death.
Before he could cry a warning, another car raced up alongside and past them, a blur moving so fast all he saw was a sweep of roaring metal. It slammed into the attacker’s side, shattering glass and knocking the car up on its two opposite wheels. The newcomer reversed almost to where Marcus and Darren sat in the halted Jeep. The engine roared a second time and squealed into attack mode. But the first car signaled retreat with a roar of its own, and burned rubber far down the highway.
The newcomer backed up close to Marcus’ side, a nondescript Chevy of seventies vintage. A sharp and hungry face protruded from the window and called over, “You all right?”
“Fine.” Marcus looked into the face, and seemed to find his answer before even framing the question. “Who are you?”
“Friend of Dee Gautam’s! Follow us! Drive!” The window rolled back up, and the car sped away.
Darren rammed the pedal to the floor, drawing so close he almost grazed the Chevy’s taillights.
When they pulled into Marcus’ street, however, the car ahead did not slow, but rather did a swift U-turn and roared away. Marcus looked ahead and understood immediately. His house was ringed by flashing lights—fire and police and sheriff and an ambulance. Police officers held back what seemed to be dozens of people armed with television lights and flashing cameras. A second group formed another perimeter out in the road, one that p
arted and let them through. Marcus pushed open his door and rose so he stood balanced on the car’s running board and breathed easy once more. His house was still standing.
He walked toward two uniformed figures squared off and bawling in each other’s faces. One was Amos Culpepper, the other he recognized from his nighttime visit to the police station. Only then did he realize that Darren was no longer beside him.
The cop was taller than Amos by a good six inches and outweighed him by the tub of lard he had strapped to his middle. In the glare of police spotlights he looked pasty and pig-eyed, a degenerate sow carrying a full litter. Amos was drawn up close to his face, and not hiding a bit of his disgust. “You call this doing your duty?”
“We know all about this, Amos.”
“I’m not talking about knowing. I’m talking about stopping. You know who’s behind this same as me!”
“I’m the one who’s walking these streets, not you. You boys spend all day driving around the country, dreaming your big schemes, popping by after we’ve done cleaned up the mess!” The cop’s lips were flecked with spittle. “I’m telling you this lawyer pal of yours has got the whole town against him!”
Amos swept an angry arm out and around, missing the cop’s chin by an inch. “Take a look around, buster. I heard the dispatcher same as you! You got sixteen distress calls warning you about what was coming down here! Don’t look like no hate-filled population to me!” He took a single step forward. “And if my boys aren’t showing up till after the mess is over, how come I beat you and the firemen here by a good five minutes!”
“Cause you’re hovering ’round this place like a deranged vulture!”
“Good thing for us both, ain’t it, seeing as how you’d have been here in time to watch the embers cool! Seems to me it’s about time you started doing your job and stopped leaving it to me!”
The cop did some arm waving of his own. “What, you want me to go out and arrest the whole city council? Glenwood has riled up the people who hold power in this town, Amos. You know that as well as I do.”
The Great Divide Page 35
