The Great Divide

by T. Davis Bunn

  Today was payback. She was so excited that she arrived at the courthouse two hours before their scheduled hearing. Suzie Rikkers paced the sidewalk and smoked so many cigarettes she felt like she had eaten an ashtray for breakfast. Her only regret was that Logan had insisted on handling the argument himself. Which was not good, but not too bad. Logan had his own reasons for hating Marcus. She glanced at her watch, sighed with relief that the hands had finally crawled into place, tossed her last cigarette into the gutter, and headed inside. Maybe hers wouldn’t be the hand wielding the knife, but at least she’d be there to watch the blood flow.

  MARCUS WALKED to the end of the seventh-floor corridor and pressed the buzzer. When the latch clicked, he pushed through and entered the new chambers of Federal District Judge Gladys Nicols. The outer office was large and well-appointed. The receptionist’s desk was staffed by a compact man in a gray suit and silver-white beard. Most federal judges used retired highway patrolmen for receptionist-guards. All were armed.

  “Marcus Glenwood to see Jenny Hail. She’s expecting me.”

  “Marcus, hi, good of you to stop by.” The judge’s chief clerk was just as he remembered, a petite bundle of intelligent energy. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You look, well, better.”

  “I am.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.” Her stride was as quick as her talk, and in three minutes they had completed a circuit through the conference room, library, secretary’s space, a smaller conference area, and two back offices for aides. The federal judge’s private chambers sported thick-pile carpet, the latest journals and books, new desks, finely framed prints, fresh wallpaper.

  “Quite a change.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said, leading him past the closed door to the judge’s inner sanctum. “Her new second aide is a Yalie.”

  Federal judges tended to attract the cream of new lawyers. “Don’t worry about it. Judge Nicols would be a fool to let you go. Which she most definitely is not.”

  Jenny led him back to the reception chamber. Eyes bright as a robin’s egg and almost as blue examined him. “How about you, are you ready for today’s hearing?”

  He was not certain why this conversation was taking place in front of the receptionist, but he was the visitor here, and she was definitely calling the shots. “I think so. It’s just the filing of preliminary motions.”

  Jenny glanced at the guard, who was observing all with a careful calm. She said, “That’s not what I hear.”

  “Which is?”

  “You know who’s handling this case for New Horizons?”

  “I haven’t received official notice, but I assumed it would be one of Randall Walker’s lackeys.”

  She shook her head. “Guess again.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Your old firm.” Another glance at the patrolman. “Your old nemesis.”

  “Logan Kendall?” His heart squeezed. “You’re joking.”

  “If you go look out the window, the black widow herself might still be wearing a furrow in the sidewalk.”

  “Logan’s brought Suzie Rikkers with him?” Marcus hoped his smile looked more genuine than it felt. “What a pair.”

  “Word has it they have filed just one pretrial motion.”

  “I was wondering why the magistrate’s hearing was arranged for just two days after I filed.” But there was something he was missing here. He stared at the patrolman, was met with an utterly blank gaze. Then it hit him. “They’re going for immediate dismissal.”

  “We think so.”

  His thoughts spun while this retired patrolman watched him like a hawk. Marcus went over and offered his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Marcus Glenwood.”

  “Jim Bell. Nice to meet you, sir. The judge and Jenny here have had some good things to say about you.”

  Marcus glanced back at Jenny, caught the tiny nod. Wondered what it meant. “That’s nice.”

  Jenny said, “They’re also going to request sanctions be leveled against you. They want to bury you.” She waited, and when he did not react, she demanded, “Are you ready for this?”

  His thoughts turned to the three boxes Kirsten had delivered two evenings ago. He had been halfway down the drive this morning before turning back and dumping them in the trunk. At the time he could not figure out why. “I think so.”

  “Marcus,” Jenny hesitated, then chose her way forward with great care. “You could make an unofficial request for postponement. Give yourself more time to prepare.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Are you certain? You really can’t afford—”

  “We have to do what we can for Gloria Hall. You know the name?”

  Jenny glanced at the patrolman before replying, “I’m not sure.”

  “She’s gone missing. We are accusing New Horizons of being involved. The case is our only hope of pressuring them to give her up. It’s that simple. I can’t wait. Not a single day.”

  When Jenny said nothing more, he started for the door. “I have to get some things from the trunk.”

  The judge’s new chambers were at the end of a long hall, the only door along its entire length. Marcus resisted the urge to sprint down the corridor. He still had time. Everything was fine. He took the elevator to the lower level, and went out the back exit. He walked to the car and leaned upon the trunk. Somewhere overhead a bird chirped. Even that sounded calamitous.

  He was not ready for this. None of it. Not for the pressures of a high-stakes court case, nor going up against his old nemesis, nor Suzie Rikkers. And especially not for having people as good and fine as the Halls depend on him. Marcus took a couple of hard breaths and resisted the urge to pound the trunk in helpless rage. The gift of sympathy from someone he admired as much as Judge Gladys Nicols made it even worse. Jenny Hail would never have brought up this matter except at the request of her boss. The evident pity behind Nicols’ move hit hard.

  Marcus used his fists to push himself upright. He stared into a sky of impossible blue, wishing there were some way to dive straight up. Lose himself in that endless depth, just swim away from this world and all its impossible woes.

  JENNY AND THE PATROLMAN stood together by the window at the back of the reception area, engrossed in the scene below. Jenny said, “You were right.”

  “The judge was the one who said Marcus would refuse to postpone,” Jim Bell responded. “I just agreed with her.”

  “Okay, you were both right.”

  Jim Bell shrugged his unconcern. “But you were right to ask.”

  Jenny stared down at the man leaning over the trunk of his car. “Is he ill?”

  “Absolutely.” The patrolman had the ability to claim any place he chose as his own, sturdy and rooted as a mountain. “Fellow’s got a heart torn right in two. If he wasn’t the kind of man the judge says he is, what he’s been through would have killed him stone dead.”

  Jenny glanced at Bell. In the short time they had worked together, she was coming to consider him a friend. “What was it like, being a highway patrolman?”

  “Lonely. Takes a special kind of man to drive down country roads in the middle of the night looking for trouble.” His beard was pierced by a quick little grin. “The crazy kind.”

  Jenny turned back to the window. Marcus was inspecting the sky now, and appeared to be having trouble finding breath. “He sure looks ill to me.”

  “I’ve seen it before.” Jim Bell’s voice held the quiet matter-of-factness of one who had seen almost everything. “Any random act of kindness is like a bullet to the chest.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it makes him want to feel. And all he’s got inside is more hurt than he can handle.” He turned to her then, placid gray eyes blank as a steel wall. “The judge is right to worry. I’ve had men under my command get hit hard like that. Most spend the rest of their lives looking for the right place to crash and burn.”

  She turned from a
ll he kept hidden inside that gaze, and watched Marcus struggle to fit a box under each arm. “I wonder if he’ll make it.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough.” He walked away from the window, clearly having seen enough. “Shame the judge will be the one who has to shoot him down.”

  FIFTEEN

  THE MAGISTRATE’S CHAMBERS were a smaller version of the judge’s but without the security. A case in federal district court first had to appear before a federal magistrate. This lower-level judge had the power to dismiss the case, rule on all nondispositive measures, even try it under certain provisions. Located on the third floor, these offices were as close as most federal cases ever came to a courtroom. For the few that measured up, the magistrate was then responsible for arranging the preparation of motions and setting the trial date.

  Marcus arrived burdened by a bulky gym bag and two square boxes normally used for holding legal files. Suzie Rikkers turned and watched his entry. Logan Kendall did not. He was busy making time with the magistrate, talking about the Carolina Panthers’ recent loss. Though he had the body of a little Napoleon, Logan possessed the profile of a tight end—bony, determined, and fierce. Only a frustrated ballcarrier could put that much enthusiasm into something so nonessential.

  “Hello, Marcus.” Magistrate Judge Bill Willoughby was a portly man with the distant, austere bearing of a priest. He offered his hand without rising. “How are you?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Take a seat there, please. Of course you know Ms. Rikkers and Logan here.”

  “I read somewhere the Panthers’ former linebacker got himself arrested again.” Logan pointedly ignored the man now seated to his left. “Must still be trying to find himself, or whatever it was that made him run away in the first place. Crazy, if you ask me. They ought to make him do a little hard time.”

  Suzie Rikkers’ suit was of standard legal-issue blue and not well-cut. It gaped about her hyper-thin frame. The flimsy hand-tied bow at Suzie’s neck looked clownish, as if she had knotted it in a desperate attempt to keep her shoulders from slipping through the neck of her blouse. Logan was as dapper as ever. “Hello, Suzie. Logan.”

  Suzie said nothing. Logan made do with, “Marcus,” but did not turn from his jovial monologue. “Problem with guys like that, they don’t know how tough it is in the real world. Give him a season as a plumber’s assistant, take away the Rolls and the women, you’d see how hard he’d start pushing for the goal line.”

  “Yes, certainly. Now let’s move on.” Judge Willoughby might have the look of a genteel Southern spirit, but he possessed more than thirty years’ experience on the bench. Feuds between lawyers were not unknown, but they were certainly unwelcome. “We had a request from Justice Nicols for her chief clerk to sit in on these proceedings. As they are new to this level of the courts, we thought it was a fair request. But only if both parties agree.”

  “No objections, Your Honor,” Marcus responded.

  Logan actually smirked. “Fine with us, Your Honor.” Clearly the more witnesses to the upcoming roast, the better.

  “All right.” He turned to his court recorder. “See if Miss Hail is ready to join us.”

  Jenny Hail entered and gave the room an oblique smile before seating herself to the back and left of Judge Willoughby’s desk. The magistrate went on. “Mr. Kendall, you requested this meeting. As I told you on the phone, such a rapid pretrial hearing is not the norm. Mr. Glenwood, you have every right to request a postponement.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor, but I have no objections.”

  “Very well.” To Logan, “I assume we are here to discuss the defense’s pretrial motions.”

  “We wish to lodge only one, Your Honor.” Logan handed the judge a slender file, paused as Suzie handed a copy to Marcus, then said, “We move that the complaint be dismissed forthwith, and Mr. Glenwood’s license to practice law be revoked.”

  The judge’s demeanor turned severe. “Licensing is an issue for the state bar, not a federal hearing. As you well know.”

  Logan held his ground. “With respect, Your Honor, we feel this matter is absurdly frivolous. A recommendation from you would carry substantial weight when we bring this matter up before the bar.” Logan turned toward Marcus for the first time. “Which we intend to do as soon as this case is thrown out.”

  “I see.” The judge looked from one attorney to the other, then opened the folder and adjusted his glasses. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “A young woman by the name of Gloria Hall has gone missing. Marcus Glenwood has taken advantage of two extremely distraught parents. His intentions are blatantly obvious. He seeks to focus public attention his way by besmirching the good name of one of our state’s most respected corporate citizens.”

  The judge read swiftly, flicking the pages. “What are the facts here?”

  “That’s the problem, Your Honor. There aren’t any facts to back up the plaintiff’s claim. Glenwood has accused my client of orchestrating a kidnapping. The whole thing is absurd.”

  A quick glance at Marcus. “The plaintiff accuses New Horizons Incorporated of being behind an abduction?”

  “Not the plaintiff, Your Honor,” Logan responded. “I don’t think Gloria Hall’s parents have anything to do with this claim. This is something Glenwood dreamed up on his own.”

  Judge Willoughby glanced at Logan over the top of his reading glasses. “So what precisely is the complaint?”

  “Glenwood has accused New Horizons Incorporated of kidnapping an American citizen. In China of all places. China, Your Honor. Nine thousand miles from here.”

  When the judge’s gaze turned his way, Marcus offered, “Gloria Hall was investigating labor practices at a notorious facility in China known simply as Factory 101. This group operates in conjunction with New Horizons.”

  Logan snapped, “That is a ridiculous and unsubstantiated claim!”

  “One moment.” Willoughby motioned with his head. “Continue.”

  Marcus went on. “Gloria Hall has been researching New Horizons labor abuses for almost two years, in conjunction with a master’s thesis she is writing at Georgetown University. Unfortunately, she drew too close to the truth at this point, and was abducted.”

  Logan retorted, “Your Honor, this is an outlandish concoction of bald-faced lies!”

  Willoughby flipped a page. “You’re saying New Horizons has no connection to this”—he back-paged, searched—“Factory 101?”

  Logan’s response was instantaneous. “None whatsoever, Your Honor. We categorically deny any involvement in the factory, and state that there is no basis whatsoever for bringing a case against us.”

  “I see.” He examined the last page, flipped it over to ensure he had missed nothing. “So you are offering nothing further in the way of pretrial motions—depositions, motions on evidence, disclosures?”

  “We offer none because none is required. There is no case here. Nothing on which a case can be based.” Another swift glance at Marcus. “We therefore request an immediate decision on our motion to dismiss. And we are charging Glenwood with frivolous miscarriage under Rule Eleven.”

  Even though he knew it was coming, the statement jolted Marcus hard. Rule Eleven was one of the bugaboos of every trial lawyer’s world, a statute whereby Marcus could be fined for all New Horizons’ legal fees resulting from the action, plus substantial penalties. A finding against him under Rule Eleven would also be grounds for action by the state bar association. He could lose his license to practice law.

  “Very serious allegations,” Judge Willoughby agreed. “All right, Mr. Glenwood. I’m listening.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus rose and fumbled with the top of his first box. “I submit as pretrial evidence the following items.”

  Using his own chair and two empty ones by the side wall, Marcus laid out three pairs of shoes and three very bright outfits. “These items belong to the line of sports clothing New Horizons markets under the name Teen Gear.”


  “Your Honor,” Logan protested, “this is merely a game of smoke and mirrors—”

  “Mr. Glenwood granted you the courtesy of listening in silence,” Judge Willoughby retorted. “I suggest you do the same.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus flipped the top off the second box, came up with two bulky files. He passed one to the judge and the second to Logan. He stood at the side of the judge’s desk and watched his old adversary open the file. And saw Logan’s jaw drop. He turned back to the judge, noted the man had observed Logan’s reaction. “These internal company documents show that New Horizons has placed orders for over two million units of each of these shoes and outfits, contracting directly with Factory 101 in Guangzhou, China.”

  Logan collected himself as best he could. “This is inadmissible evidence, Your Honor. It cannot be considered.”

  Judge Willoughby glared across his desk. “It seems to me that you had every opportunity to make motions on evidence earlier.”

  “But Your Honor, these are confidential—”

  “Be quiet.” To Marcus, “Proceed, Counsel.”

  “If you will turn to the next section, you will see that these very same Teen Gear items were the centerpiece of the company’s ad campaigns for the past three years; they are dated there in the top-left-hand corner. You will note that these ads used as models several top sports stars, including this year’s NBA most-valuable-player award winner. In all these pictures, they are promoting the Teen Gear products originating from Factory 101.”

  Marcus granted a moment for all this to sink in, then concluded. “This constitutes incontrovertible evidence that there is, and has been for a minimum of three years, a direct connection between New Horizons and the Chinese factory in question.”

  Logan’s voice sounded choked. “I demand to know where you got your hands on confidential corporate information.”

  Marcus remained silent. He fervently wished to ask Kirsten Stanstead that very same question.