“I know you’ve got one concerned citizen who’s finally willing to stand up to those madmen over there on the hill!”
“Those madmen are putting food on the tables of half this town!”
“Don’t give them the right to break the law, now, does it? Only reason we’re in this mess is ’cause you and your kind spent too many years licking their boots!”
The cop made a quick jerk forward, but Amos merely narrowed his eyes, ready for anything. The cop backed down, and hated it. “You’re out of your jurisdiction, Amos. Best you make tracks.”
“I’m leaving when I know somebody’s gonna protect this citizen against the enemies of the law floating about here like bugs ’round a light.”
“Then you’re gonna be here till they finish digging the grave you’ve just started on.” The cop turned and shouldered past Marcus, not even seeing him in his rage. “Come on boys, we’re all done here.”
“That’s right, tuck your tails and run!” Amos shouted after him. “Head straight home, strip off those uniforms you’re shaming, and burn ’em in your backyard!”
The three cop cars wheeled through the crowd as though the people were not even there. Amos stood breathing hard and watching the path they had furrowed, then said to Marcus, “We’ll get us some backup in here tonight. This thing is way outta hand.”
“We were attacked on the highway home tonight,” Marcus said, wanting it over and done with. Swiftly he sketched out what had happened.
Amos’ vision cleared in the process, and he looked at Marcus with the power to see who was speaking. “You go on over and see to your house. I’ll get the rest from Darren.”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“Nobody was inside, far as I know.” Amos walked away.
Deacon Wilbur moved up as soon as Marcus was alone. “Aaron and Orlando were over there watching. Saw the fellows pull up, watched ’em start the fire, called for help.”
“Where was Netty?”
“She left an hour or so earlier.” The hand on his shoulder was concerned, strong. “You all right, brother?”
“I think so.” Marcus started toward the house, and Deacon fell in beside him. A stain of soot curled around the side of the house. Up close the ground squished wet and soggy under his step. The stench of smoldering ash and the thought of how close he had come to losing the old place left him nauseated.
Deacon’s hand returned to offer comfort. “Never seen the like. Had neighbors from all over out here, running around with buckets and hoses, like a circus without the horses.”
Marcus halted when the side of the house came into view. “Oh no.”
“I tell you, those old trees went off like a bomb. Whoosh. I was just driving up when the taller one caught. They had two choices, save the house or save the trees. I’d say they chose right.”
The sycamore and dogwood that had graced his office window were now charred skeletons. The sycamore’s top branches rose as high as the house and were as naked as old bones. Marcus could have wept at the sight.
“We’ll get in there tomorrow soon as it’s light and start cleaning up. Have the old place right in no time.”
Marcus stared at the trees’ remains, and thought of the coming day. “I don’t know if I can take much more.”
The hand rose and fell one more time. “I know, son. I know.”
FORTY
WHEN LOGAN STOOD UP the next morning, it was not to address Marcus, but rather to announce, “Defense calls Ron Nesbitt to the stand.”
Judge Nicols showed a flash of anger at being surprised yet again. Marcus took no pleasure from the reprieve. Logan was merely drawing out the agony of waiting. Suzie Rikkers was no longer looking his way, but rather seemed to ignore the courtroom entirely, deeply involved in her notes.
Logan lost no time in establishing the witness’s credentials. “Mr. Nesbitt, you are head of the Raleigh regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is that correct?”
“It is.” In fact, Ron Nesbitt looked more like an accountant than a federal agent. He was prune-faced and balding, and had the nasal twang of a dedicated pencil pusher. “For the past nine years.”
“Your business is catching criminals, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. When you have a case involving assault, such as the plaintiff has accused my clients of here, could you please tell the court where your investigations would begin?”
“With the body.”
“The body.” Logan gave the jury box a slow nod. Pay attention. “You have reviewed the evidence of this trial, have you not?”
“I have.”
“And is there a body here, Mr. Nesbitt?”
“There is not.”
Logan waited a moment, ready for the objection. But none came. Charlie was handling the witness, and for all intents and purposes appeared to be asleep. Marcus was busy staring at his hands, trying to hold down a queasy stomach. He wiped at one temple, rubbed the sweat between his fingers. Back and forth.
Logan continued, “How long have you personally spent studying this case, Mr. Nesbitt?”
A glare was cast at the defense table before he responded, “Two days.”
“Two days. And how many active investigations is your office now handling?”
“Forty-seven.”
“And how many of these have received two full days of your own time?”
“Not many. Five. Maybe six.”
The plaintiff’s silence made Logan bold. “And yet for reasons we all find somewhat confusing, you have been forced to give two full days to this case?”
“It’s a political football. I had to prepare reports.”
“So this case has become bothersome to your bosses in Washington?”
Another glare. “It certainly has.”
“How would you rate the evidence in this trial, Mr. Nesbitt?”
“Scanty. We would not make an arrest on what has been presented.”
Another long glance at the jury. “You would not.”
“No.” He addressed the jury directly. “As a matter of fact, if a subordinate of mine suggested such a tactic, I would feel obliged to submit an official rebuke.”
Charlie sounded bored. “Objection.”
“Overruled. The witness is instructed to restrict himself to answering the question.”
Logan continued smoothly, “What is your experience of parents who report their children missing?”
“Happens all too often.”
“What about well-intentioned parents who are genuinely concerned about their children’s welfare?”
The witness followed Logan’s example and avoided looking toward the Halls. “As I said, it happens all too often.”
“Why do they contact the FBI, Mr. Nesbitt?”
“Usually because the parents fear the child has been kidnapped.”
“Is that generally the case?”
“No.”
“How often is foul play actually a factor? One time out of a hundred?”
“Less.”
“What in your experience is a more common scenario?”
“They are runaways.” His words were made more brutal by the uncaring tone. He could just as well have been reading figures off a page. “They have problems at home. They fight with their parents or their boyfriends, and they run.”
“Or because they have an agenda all their own?”
“Objection,” Charlie intoned.
“Sustained.”
“No further questions.” Logan retreated, vastly satisfied.
Marcus took a deep breath in time with Charlie’s rise. He wished he could ask his old friend to drag his questioning out for months.
“Going back to your earlier testimony, Mr. Nesbitt.” Charlie limped over to lean heavily upon the podium. “Does a civil case require the same burden of proof as a criminal case?”
“No. Usually it requires less evidence.”
“Thank you.” Charlie turned away and started back to the plaintiff�
��s table, clearly finished. Charlie’s swiftness surprised everyone—the judge, Logan, the jury. The witness was in the act of rising as Charlie arrived back at the table, and raised one finger, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. Without turning around, he calmly asked, “Oh, by the way: What was your impression of the video?”
Logan vaulted upright. “Objection!”
Judge Nicols turned her surprise toward the opposing camp. “On what grounds?”
Logan had to search for a moment. “Calls for supposition, Your Honor.”
Her gaze narrowed. “You have just led this witness down the primrose path, asking him to suppose what happened to one person based on his experience with others.”
“He is an expert witness, Your Honor.”
“And expert witnesses are presumed to have opinions pertaining to evidence in their domain, are they not?” Her voice dripped scorn. She waited until Logan had retreated into his chair, then turned to the witness and said, “Answer the question.”
The dry demeanor was shaken. “I have not seen it.”
Charlie showed astonishment. “You didn’t see the video?”
“No.”
Charlie shared his bewilderment with the judge, then the jury. “In that case, I would say the defense has been pretty selective in the evidence it showed you, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Objection!”
Charlie settled into his seat. “No further questions.”
THE ENTIRE CHAMBER seemed to shudder when Suzie Rikkers rose to her feet. She did so with the delicacy of a dancer, her fingernails tapping lightly upon the wooden table as she said, “Defense calls Marcus Glenwood to the stand.”
Marcus heard first a murmur and then a roar. He could not tell which was his own fear and which was the chamber’s reaction. Judge Nicols pounded her gavel for silence, but the sound was drowned out by the hammering in his chest. As Judge Nicols explained the coming process to the jury, Marcus walked forward, leaned hard against the railing around the witness box, and waited for the bailiff to approach. The man was a retired patrolman, one of the same breed as Jim Bell, and he shared Marcus’ distress as he administered the oath and told him to be seated.
“State your name and occupation for the record, please.”
“Marcus Glenwood, attorney-at-law.”
Suzie Rikkers reseated herself and did a very swift walk-through, establishing provenance for the critical documents and showing how Ashley Granger was the source for much of what tied the Chinese military and the general and New Horizons to the factory. Marcus scarcely heard his own answers, much less the questions themselves. Charlie objected only once, and on a minor matter, merely to issue a verbal warning that he was there and watching.
The silence, when it came, had the focused intensity of a laser. Suzie Rikkers rose to her feet a second time. She did not speak as she did a little swaying walk toward him. Marcus found himself unable to resist the unspoken command to watch her approach. It was what Suzie had been waiting for. Her own gaze was almost sensual, dark and liquid. Her hair was styled, her dark dress new and fitting snugly to her miniature frame. She wore a single strand of pearls, a tiny gold brooch, fresh lipstick. She was made up as carefully as she would be for a big date.
Suzie Rikkers snagged the podium, the hand halting her forward progress. “Mr. Glenwood,” she sighed contentedly. “You were fired from your former position, is that correct?”
“Objection.” Charlie seemed to have difficulty rising to his feet. “Your Honor, this witness was called to establish provenance only.”
Suzie delayed turning to the judge long enough to give Marcus a single sloe-eyed look, smiling with all but her mouth. She knew, as did he, that Judge Nicols had no choice but to permit this line of inquiry. “Your Honor, the questions I intend to ask will demonstrate beyond any shadow of doubt that the witness has ulterior motives for bringing this case.”
“This is neither the time for opening statements nor for closing arguments,” Judge Nicols snapped.
“Perhaps not, Your Honor.” Suzie Rikkers’ whine held a new edge, one that drew her words out in small panting breaths. “But if the plaintiff’s lawyer insists on interrupting my highly legitimate questioning with objections, I have no choice but to respond.”
Judge Nicols opened her mouth to slap the woman down, then stopped herself. Suzie Rikkers was watching her with the same tiny grin she had bestowed on Marcus. Begging the judge to come down heavily on the side of the plaintiff’s counsel, granting the defense a basis upon which to lodge an appeal and call a mistrial. Judge Nicols’ gaze narrowed, her dislike for Rikkers evident to all in the room. She had no choice but to say, “Proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Suzie Rikkers turned with studied slowness. “Mr. Glenwood, you were fired, is that correct?”
“I resigned.”
“You resigned. You were a partner with the firm of Knowles, Barbour and Bradshaw, is that not correct?”
“Yes.”
“Is it normal for full partners to just up and quit?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Glenwood, that you were brought before the firm’s disciplinary board for incompetence?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” This time Charlie did not try to rise. It would have slowed his cry an instant longer than necessary. “Those are confidential records that have not been called as evidence.”
“I withdraw the question.” The words carried a dreamy whine. “You left one of the largest firms in North Carolina on your own volition, is that what you want the court to believe?”
“That is what happened.”
She started a slow, lithe pacing in front of the witness stand. “Who are you in partnership with now?”
“I operate my own practice.”
“So you are by yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you practicing?”
“In Rocky Mount.”
“And where are your offices located?”
“In my home.”
“So you left a prestigious partnership, a coveted position with a major national firm.” She traced one newly lacquered fingernail along the railing’s edge. “You started a practice in your house in a small regional town, you work all by yourself, and you expect the court to believe that you did this voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
Her eyelids were languid, heavy, the look she gave him blankly ardent. “Why did you make this choice, Mr. Glenwood?”
“I was going through a difficult period. I wanted to scale back.”
“For the moment, let’s set aside just how far you’ve scaled back.” This time the smile actually touched her lips. “I’d like to spend a moment discussing this difficult time of yours. It began with an accident, is that correct?”
His swallow was forced through a throat gripped by a terrible hand. “Yes.”
“Objection. This is utterly irrelevant.”
Suzie Rikkers did not bother to turn toward the judge. The pleasure was there in watching Marcus. Holding him with her gaze. “Not only is it relevant, Your Honor, it is critical to this case. Vital.”
Judge Nicols’ tone said she had no choice but to declare, “Overruled.”
“You were in an accident, is that not correct?”
“Yes.”
“You were traveling back from the coast.”
“Yes.”
“Your son was with you, was he not? What was his name?”
From the corner of his eye Marcus caught sight of two other smiles. One belonged to Logan Kendall, the other to General Zhao. The two dark-suited men sat close together, the pleasure on their faces shouting across the distance. “Jason.”
“How old was he?”
“Three and a half.” Laughter lucid as heaven’s chimes sparkled in the dead courtroom air.
“Your daughter was there too. Her name was …”
“Jessica.”
“And how old was she?”
“Sixteen months.�
� Another sound, the gentle music of a contented child, tore the heart from his body, leaving him bleeding and exposed.
“Tragically, you lost both your children in this accident, did you not?”
The courtroom gasped a breath Marcus could not find for himself. “Yes.”
She leaned closer still, blocking out all but her own presence. “The loss hurt you deeply, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It was a terrible, painful blow, was it not?” The lilt given to her words by the tiny panting breaths erased her screeching whine almost entirely. “It shattered your life.”
“Yes.”
“You have a drinking problem, don’t you, Mr. Glenwood?”
“No.”
The fingernail returned to its slow tracing. “I must warn you, we have a number of witnesses who will testify to the contrary.”
“I had a problem before the accident. Since then I have stopped drinking altogether.”
“Have you?” Her snakelike whisper trapped him in an unwelcome intimacy. “As a result of this same accident, you also endured a difficult divorce.”
“You should know,” he said, the words strangled in his own ears.
A slow turn, an almost chanted, “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer the question.”
Marcus did not wait for Judge Nicols to speak. “Yes. It was difficult.”
“You lost your little boy, Jason. You lost Jessica, your daughter. You lost your wife. You lost your standing within the legal community. You could say, could you not, that the accident totally demolished your life.”
Marcus found himself unable to answer. Hearing Suzie Rikkers speak his children’s names left him desperate to reach across the railing and crush her neck between his hands.
Suzie Rikkers took a pause for breath, both hands out and reaching across the wooden railing. Her blood-red fingernails weaved and danced as if they were casting a spell. “Have you recovered from this accident and the losses you suffered?”
“As much as anyone can.” Not caring that it was the wrong answer. Not caring how it sounded at all. Simply striving for control.
“I suggest that you have not recovered at all.” Another intimate smile. “A lone attorney, working without support, bringing such a case as this to federal court—would you not say that was the act of someone who still has a long way to go to recover?”
The Great Divide Page 36
