The church rocked to the shouted response. Dozens more clustered and danced along the central aisle.
“Then you know what happens? You will rise up on eagle’s wings. Shout me an amen, brothers and sisters! You will run and never stumble. Let the Lord hear your joy!”
“Hallelujah!”
“You will strive and not grow weary, no. Sing your praise to the Lord!”
When the tumult quietened, the old man went on, “You got to work for something bigger, something finer, something eternal. You got to cross that great divide to make your work matter. You got to march over the bridge set in place by perfect sacrifice. The bridge God built for you and you alone.”
The upheaval grew more intense, the chants a song that carried no set tune, but swept like a lyrical wind through the church. “The bridge across the great divide, oh yes, it is the infinite gift. The holy gift. Yeah. And there is only one thing you can do to give it meaning, you hear what I am saying? You must accept this gift. You must aim your walk. No matter how scared you might be, looking down over the sides and seeing that chasm open up, yes, the one that looks dark as eternal night, the one that whispers words of death. Keep your eyes focused on the other side, the place where light dwells in all things. The place where you are welcome. Yes. The one place you can call home.”
Rising fatigue forced Marcus back into his seat. The weariness swelled until the words no longer mattered. Only the welcome they contained stayed with him. And that was more than enough. He looked around him, his gaze met by such open friendliness he wanted to weep. He found himself thinking of Dee Gautam’s words, about how home was the place that accepted him. Marcus found himself adding new words of his own. Perhaps home was the place that accepted him because of his needs. Not in spite of his lacks and failings; because of them. Then he shook his head a fraction. No. That would be too much to ask. Except perhaps for a single moment now and then, in a time out of time, one touched by the divine. Such as here and now.
TWENTY-FOUR
MONDAY MORNING brought no physical improvement whatsoever. Marcus’ body and mind both seemed stubbornly set against the day. His head pounded, his arm and gut ached, shaving was a chore, even the shower found tender places to probe. His tie defeated him entirely. As he descended the stairs, a burdensome weight remained upon his heart. He knew the reason for his concern, and was helpless in the face of it all. Today marked the beginning of the most hopeless trial of his entire career. He was wounded in body and mind and spirit. He felt lonelier than he had since the funeral eighteen months earlier. And he was sorely afraid of letting everyone down. Again.
As he entered the front hallway, footsteps clumped across the veranda. His entire frame seized up as shadows drifted by the narrow front windows. He saw with vivid clarity the gray attacker, heard the warning so loud it took a moment to realize the doorbell had rung. Marcus forced his muscles to unlock. He was fairly certain that if the gray man returned, he would not pause to ring the front bell.
Deacon Wilbur was positively dwarfed by the young man beside him. “Morning, Marcus. How are you feeling?”
“Fair.” He sketched a smile to the young man. “Hello, Darren.”
“The church elders met last night. We’ve decided to ask Darren here to keep an eye on you.”
The previous fear was still too vivid for Marcus to refuse outright. “It’s a good thought, Reverend. But I can’t afford to hire more staff.”
Deacon Wilbur demonstrated his ability to frown with his entire face. “Who said anything about you paying? Matter of fact, I don’t recall ever seeing a bill for protecting our cemetery.”
“That was nothing.”
“Don’t you say that. Don’t you even think it, not for an instant.”
The conversation was halted by the sight of four vehicles pulling in behind Deacon’s truck—Kirsten in one car, followed by Austin and Alma Hall in another, then a sheriff’s patrol car, and finally a Jeep Grand Cherokee painted Carolina blue.
The first voice he heard was that of Boomer Hayes. “Marcus! If I didn’t see you standing there in your own front door, I’d guess folks were gathering for your funeral!”
“You just hush up and take this.” Libby Hayes was quieter only by degree. “Charlie, get back here and carry this coffee cake.”
Amos Culpepper was the first to the stairs. “Good to see you up and about, Marcus. Hello, Reverend.” He nodded to the young man who towered almost a full head above the deputy. “I know you.”
“This is Darren Wilbur,” Marcus said. “He was rousted last week by the local police.”
The deputy kept a cool eye on the young man, who had turned to sullen stone. “Rousted.”
“Charged with the 7-Eleven robbery. He had witnesses who placed him on the other side of the river. Not to mention that the clerk says abuse was shouted at him and Darren has a stutter, and the clerk made no mention of any. But the officer in charge refused to listen. He needed a warm body. Darren is big enough to scare him.”
The deputy sheriff observed the young man for a long moment, then asked, “Do you vouch for him, Marcus?”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll see if we can’t talk some sense into the arresting officer.”
“Marcus!” Boomer Hayes led the crowd up the veranda steps. “I hope you’re hungry, ’cause Libby’s been up since dawn making all kinds of good smells.”
“Cultured Southern ladies are taught at an early age that food is the answer to whatever ails you.” Libby wore a pants and sweater outfit of sharp blue. “Land sakes, Marcus, the side of your head looks all bashed in.”
“You should see his gut,” Charlie said, doing his sideways climb up the stairs. “Morning, Reverend.”
“Hello, Judge. How’re you this fine day?”
“Partial to sleep. Libby made enough racket to wake the dead.”
“Momma always said food tastes better if you bang the pans.” Libby gave Darren a slow up-and-down. “They surely do grow folks big down east.”
“Darren here is offering to keep watch over Marcus,” Deacon said. “There’s a little apartment back of the kitchen, got its own sitting room and all. He’ll be fine.”
The news met with such a chorus of approval that Marcus felt his own objections swept away. Amos said, “I better be off, Marcus. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Not so fast.” Charlie hefted his platter. “We need all the help we can get here.”
“We got us cheese-grits soufflé,” Boomer agreed. “Sausage-and-eggs casserole. Spoon bread. Sweet-potato pie. Coffee cake with pecans from my own tree. And scratch biscuits with smoked country ham.”
“Marcus, stop cluttering up the door,” Charlie ordered. “Go do something useful like putting on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“ALL RISE. The Seventh District Court of the United States is now in session. Judge Nicols presiding.”
Marcus’ multiple pains protested loudly as he stood, yet he did not mind at all. Alongside the throbbing in his head and gut, closer to him still than the arm plastered and aching, was the laughter he had heard that morning in his kitchen. Boomer Hayes had never in his entire life met a stranger, and not even Alma Hall could hold on to her pretrial nerves. Marcus had sat and eaten until his belly felt bruised inside as well as out, and marveled at his home’s momentary change of atmosphere.
“Be seated.” In her dark robes and high-backed leather chair, Gladys Nicols looked impossibly solid and as regal as a queen. Her features appeared even more sharply defined than usual as she inspected Marcus long and hard. “Counsel are requested to approach the bench.”
The courtroom was an elegant walnut-paneled theater. Attendance was free, participation outrageously expensive. For the losers the cost was everything they had, pride and freedom included. Only the United States flag was mounted behind the judge, as the state flag did not belong in a federal court. A carved wooden Great Seal of the United States was set in the wall above the judge’s head. The seal and t
he flag were the courtroom’s only adornments. The result was a chamber both grand and uncompromisingly stern. The tables, jury box, witness stand, judge’s high bench, and the recorder’s station and public seats were the same polished walnut as the walls. A rich and impressive seat of law, or a very public morgue for the mourning of shattered ambitions—it all depended on who won.
The judge’s bench rested high upon its carpeted platform, ringed by lower stations for the reporter and two clerks and the witness stand. The court reporter started to rise as Marcus and the others approached, but was waved away. Up close, Judge Nicols was so somber as to appear ageless. “Marcus, are you up for this?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”
“I’m willing to grant a continuance if you want.”
“Every day counts here, Your Honor.” Because of his throbbing head, Marcus found it easier to swing his entire body toward Logan. “Have your client release Gloria Hall and we will immediately drop all charges.”
Logan pulled his gaze from the head bruise extending beyond the borders of Marcus’ bandage. “Your Honor, I find the implied accusation offensive in the extreme.”
But Judge Nicols was not done with Marcus. “I had my clerk speak with the hospital staff. They doubt your ability to handle the rigors of trial work so soon.”
Charlie moved in closer. “I’ll be taking care of jury selection, Your Honor.”
Gladys Nicols unbent enough to offer a small smile. “How are you, Mr. Hayes?”
“Raring to go, Your Honor.”
“All right. Marcus, if you need to retire early, say the word.”
“I’ll be fine, Your Honor. But thank you.”
He held to his stoic denial only as long as it took to return to the plaintiff’s table. As Judge Nicols greeted the prospective jurors, Marcus palmed a tablet from his jacket pocket. He could do nothing about the palsied shake to his hand, however, and was grateful when Alma took the carafe from him and filled the glass. Charlie watched from Marcus’ other side and commented, “You’re in a bad way.”
Austin was seated to the right of Alma, the closest person to the jury box. “The man should be lying down.”
Marcus set down his glass and touched his forehead. His fingers came away damp. He said to Charlie, “You’re on your own today.”
“Don’t you worry, son. I’ve prepped more juries than you’ve had hot meals.”
The pill settled the pain and the courtroom into a soft, dull drone. Marcus sat and pretended to observe as Charlie went through the jury questionnaires. Nothing registered, save for the fact that little mattered, since the case’s outcome was already decided. It was all for show, and Charlie could handle that just fine.
Mercifully, the judge called it a day before the pill wore off. Marcus listened to her instructions as he would the buzzing of an insect, then rose and found himself mildly surprised to find the four of them joined by Darren and Kirsten. He was glad to discover his legs could carry him to the elevator. There the judge’s receptionist was standing with the building’s security detail, all retired police, all wanting to ask how he was. Marcus let Charlie speak for him, wishing he could curl up right there on the floor.
TUESDAY STARTED BETTER and faded more slowly. In the time between awakening and coming downstairs, Marcus took great comfort in the quiet sounds of someone else moving around his house. Darren drove him into Raleigh as though he had been doing it for years, silent and very watchful.
At midmorning, when pain and fatigue threatened, he slipped a pill from his pocket and waited while Charlie poured him a glass of water. The old man murmured, “They’re stacking the jury.”
“I know.”
“They’re turning the jury box the color of fresh mayonnaise.” Both teams were granted eight peremptory strikes. Logan had used six, Charlie one. Judge Nicols had excused four others. The one black person among the five jurors chosen thus far was a dentist, also the only professional among the group. Marcus knew the defense had let this one stand because medical personnel were notorious for loathing big payouts.
“Why didn’t you strike the dentist?”
“Can’t rightly say. Just had a hunch about him is all.” Charlie motioned toward the rows of potential jurors behind them. “Wish I knew what to look for in this bunch.”
Marcus started to say it hardly mattered, since the case was bound to be dismissed long before the jury retired. Charlie went on, “The next five prospects are white. I could strike them all, then—”
“Don’t bother with that.” Marcus pointed vaguely with his water glass. “Nicols will hardly take kindly to the defense using race as a selection tool. Let’s not lower ourselves to their level.”
“Can’t see how that matters if we wind up with a jury that’s firm against us.” Charlie wore a poplin suit and a bright yellow bow tie. This close he smelled slightly of camphor and hair oil. The eyes behind his thick lenses swam with intelligent concern. “Bound to be some whites in that bunch who’d love to give an intelligent black troublemaker her comeuppance.”
Marcus swallowed his pill. “Charlie, listen to me.”
“Not to mention the work the defense team must have put into studying the jurors’ profiles. Look at that bunch, like vultures in drag. Bet they’ve got some whoop-de-do jury consultants prying through those folks’ garbage—”
“Forget them.” Marcus felt his will and focus fading. “Find out which ones are churchgoers.”
Charlie Hayes seemed to have difficulty getting Marcus into the right frame of his bifocals. “Shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as how we’re sitting on the buckle of the Bible Belt,” Charlie replied. “But in case you haven’t noticed, most every church I’ve set foot into has its share of racists. Ain’t saying it’s right. Just saying it’s so.”
Marcus lacked any will to argue. “Just the same.”
“Mr. Hayes,” Judge Nicols interrupted. “Any question for prospective juror seventeen?”
Marcus watched Charlie rise and begin his jocular probing. His poplin suit had been bought for a much younger man, and tended to flap on Charlie’s aging frame. But the jurors apparently did not mind, for they watched Charlie’s creaking dance with a smile. Marcus wholeheartedly agreed. Charlie Hayes pranced and waved and flittered like a poplin butterfly.
“IS THE DOOR LOCKED? All right. Everybody pay attention.” Logan surveyed the group crammed into his office—seven lawyers, two paralegals, two in-house jury consultants, three secretaries. As senior associate, Suzie Rikkers claimed the most comfortable visitor’s chair. The others squeezed into whatever space they could find. Five remained standing. All wore sullen expressions and the bored air of people wasting their time.
“I know what you’re thinking. The trial is a sham, the plaintiff has no case, and you’re all there for padding.” Logan noted the nods around the room. Even the most junior associate felt the senselessness of their presence. And he knew what they all expected next—the partner in charge would now give a pep talk: how this was crucial courtroom experience, how they needed to watch and learn, ask questions, anticipate, get ready for their own big day.
“Well, up to now that’s been exactly right. Dan Fussell, our senior partner, actually stopped me yesterday in the hallway and asked if we couldn’t use a couple more associates in there.” He waited long enough to see the surprise filter through the boredom. Here was something new, a partner actually telling them the truth. “Obviously our client has given the senior partner a blank check. Since I refused to take on anyone else, my guess is he’ll bill you all at partners’ hourly rates. I know I would.”
Logan stood and turned to the window behind his desk. The descending sun shone through a horizon-level slit in the clouds, and painted the world ocher and rose and gold. At least here was space and clarity. Logan continued, “Dan has bought the client’s line. He assumes this is a nuisance claim. He accepts that New Horizons has no formal tie to the Chinese factory. The vanished girl has nothing whatsoever to do with New Hori
zons. And we’re off for a walk in the park.”
He turned back, and this time all eyes were on him. “As far as Dan is concerned, that’s exactly what we’re thinking too. You don’t discuss this with anyone not in this room, not even your own secretary. You need a letter typed, do it yourself. Don’t open your mouth to anyone around here except the people in this room. We can’t afford the risk of this getting back to the client. New Horizons has announced that they are granting us a bigger slice of the corporate pie, and we don’t want anything to disturb this new relationship. Are we clear so far?”
This time the nods were sharp assents. He had their full attention. “All right. I’ve got a strong gut feeling that the company is leading us right off the cliff.”
The room took a single breath. Suzie asked in her patented whine, “You really think they kidnapped that girl?”
“I think it doesn’t matter. I think they’re hiding something. Something big. Whether it’s about Gloria Hall or Factory 101 or something else entirely doesn’t make any difference. What we can’t afford any longer is to simply go where they direct.”
He clenched the leather backrest of his chair with both fists, and leaned as he would over prize-ring ropes. “We’re going to prepare for the worst. Suzie, get a team together. Assume Marcus is going to hit the jury with past practices. Prepare arguments for the judge.”
“Right. But—”
“No buts.” A quick glance around the room. “From now on, we work on the assumption that our client is not our friend. Clear?” When their assent came, he continued, “Two people start digging through New Horizons’ court records. I want to know every time they have even sneezed within a hundred feet of a courthouse. Volunteers? Fine. You and you.”
The Great Divide Page 22