“M-Mrs. Hall.”
Marcus asked, “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m about the same as Austin, only I hide it better.” Another attempted smile flickered beneath the streetlight. “It was good to see you perform up there today. But that poor Mr. Taub.”
“Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“No. Will you take a turn with me?” Alma waited until they had left the driveway and entered the sea of night to reveal her nerves. “I want to know when you’re going to show that videotape of them hurting my little girl.”
“Probably never, Alma. I can’t.” Most cases held some evidence or angle of attack that the client felt was crucial but that, from a legal perspective, was a ticking bomb. The difficulty was in making the logic of court procedure shine clearly through his client’s emotional storm. Marcus held to a gentle tone as he explained, “The issue is what the court calls establishing a chain of possession.”
“I don’t care about that!”
“You should, Alma. This is vital. We have to authenticate the evidence by showing exactly where the tape was made and how it came to be in our hands. The defense knows about the tape, it’s listed as evidence and they have a copy. They can very easily exclude it because there is no way to tie it to the Chinese factory.”
They entered the next island of streetlight. Alma clutched the front of her sweater with both hands, bunching it tightly across her middle. The yellow light turned her features waxy and translucent. Her eyes were dark and wide as nightmare pits.
When she said nothing, Marcus continued, “We are treading a very thin line here. Remember, our focus is on gaining publicity and finding out what happened to Gloria.”
The cry seemed wrenched from the very night. “Then show them that tape! Let the world see what those fiends have done to my child!”
Marcus halted between the lights, where the dark offered this proud woman a private space. “We can’t do that, Alma. All it shows is a badly beaten young woman in a concrete cell. There is nothing to tie it anywhere, not even to China. The defense wants us to show the tape. Why? Because they can then say we have based our entire case on something that is patently flimsy. Unless we have something to demonstrate there is a direct causal link between New Horizons and the making of that tape, we cannot show it. We cannot.”
When Alma remained silent, Marcus draped his good arm over her shoulders. Her entire body trembled from the impact of sobs she did not wish to release. They stood at the border of the nearest streetlight, while overhead leaves of a neighboring oak rustled like yellow parchment. When she finally took a deep breath and regained her composure, Marcus steered her around and started back up the street.
Her words were as quiet as the night. “All last night I was remembering times from Gloria’s growing-up years. Austin and I have been involved in civil rights since before we were married. Austin marched three times with Reverend King. I was heavily involved in local politics and education. Austin used to call us foot soldiers in the battle for civil rights. I helped manage the campaign of the first black man elected to the United States Congress from this state. Gloria was eleven at the time. She loved it from the start, worked day in and day out, stuffing envelopes or passing out leaflets or putting up posters. She was a born activist.”
“She sounds like a very fine woman,” Marcus said, liking Alma immensely, imagining what it must have been like to grow up in such a household with these two people as beacons. And challenges.
The woman’s tone deepened with worry. “I lay there all last night, remembering these things and praying the good Lord would give me a sign. Something to show my baby was all right. That she wasn’t …”
Marcus could do nothing but hold her shoulders tightly and slow to match her broken pace. “You might both want to come to court tomorrow. Hopefully we’re going to spring a little surprise.”
Planning for the next day gave Alma a reason to recover. “Austin and I are taking time off work. Neither of us is doing anything save worry. The schools understand. We’re on sabbatical until after the trial.”
He could think of a dozen reasons why this was not a good idea. But it was their decision, and nothing would be gained by arguing. As they turned down the driveway he looked at the house and searched the windows. “Is Kirsten around?”
Sad humor tinged her words. “The lady took off the instant she heard you were stopping by.”
“Any idea why she hates me so?”
The chuckle became clearer in her voice. “Kirsten doesn’t dislike you, honey. She’s torn, is all.”
“By what?”
“Now, that I can’t say. I’ve known her for years, ever since she and Gloria started living together at Georgetown. I thought I knew her as well as I do anyone, but I’ve found myself learning something new these past few days. This girl is mighty comfortable with her mysteries.”
His mind flitted like a moth about a flame. “Strange how they lived together all that time and Kirsten never met Gloria’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea.” Alma slid from his arm and started wearily up her front steps. “She introduced them.”
The news planted Marcus firmly. “What?”
“Gary Loh did volunteer work at the foundation where Kirsten works.” Alma seemed to labor at opening the door, she was that tired.
“Which foundation was that?”
“The Far East Mission Board.” She stepped inside. “I’ll tell Kirsten you asked about her. Good night, Marcus.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WHEN THEY ARRIVED back home, Marcus was still worrying over possible reasons why Kirsten would have lied to him about knowing Gloria’s boyfriend. Which was why it took him a moment to realize there was a strange little camper parked alongside his garage. The camper was one of the humped sort made back in the fifties, a little metal mole pulled by what appeared to be a vintage Chevrolet painted with rust and years of grime. He and Darren exchanged a questioning look, then climbed from the Jeep.
A man as strange as the vehicles was found crouched in a corner of Marcus’ front veranda. The porch light cast him as a mummy who muttered and flittered about, rising now to inspect the framework around Marcus’ front door. He was of an indeterminate age, certainly over fifty, yet whether also over a hundred it was impossible to say. His skin was stretched tight over a hairless skull, his eyes black as coal, his mouth mobile, and his speech angrily musical. He glanced up at the sound of their approach, then returned to his grumbling inspection of the side window.
Marcus climbed the front steps and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Dee Gautam,” the man snapped back. “He say you need gardener.”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard anything—”
Angrily the man pointed with what appeared to be a black pencil wedded to a thin cord. “You just open door.”
Another glance at the tall black man beside him, then Marcus did as he was bid. “Dee Gautam sent you?”
“Gautam, yes. What I say.” He took his angry muttering inside with him, scurrying through the front hall like a two-legged ferret. He paused long enough to snap back at where they stood, “Lights, lights!”
Marcus switched on the overheads. He and Darren followed him from the front hallway into the conference room, and from there into Marcus’ office. When the man started toward Marcus’ desk, a contrivance strapped to his belt gave off an irate squeal. The man shouted in an unknown tongue and stepped closer. The apparatus was about the size of a portable tape player and attached to the other end of the black cord. The man’s features grew triumphant as he pointed his black pencil at the lamp on Marcus’ desk, the squeal constant and high-pitched. He bent, searched, and pulled something away. He then marched back to where Marcus stood and thrust his hand forward, as though he were holding a live locust and not what appeared to be a metal button.
“Dee Gautam very right,” the man exclaimed. “You need gardener bad.”
Marcus reached for the tiny button,
turned it over, watched it glint evil and secret in the light. Two tiny wires sprouted like hairs from the side.
“Here, Dee say, you take.” The man shoved a wrinkled envelope into Marcus’ numb fingers, then took his apparatus and his muttering from the room.
Darren stared down at the thing in Marcus’ palm and asked, “Is th-that what I th-think it is?”
Marcus replied in soft wonder, “Somebody’s bugged my house.”
Darren turned to stare back at the open doorway, and said, “Who is th-this D-Dee fellow?”
“A friend. Here, take this.” Marcus handed over the bug and opened the envelope. What he found inside granted him the day’s final stupefaction.
From his secretary’s office there arose another high-pitched squeal and a second shout of triumph.
Darren said, “You s-sure g-got yourself s-some strange friends.”
THE ONLY PERSON Marcus managed to locate before departing the next morning was the Washington process server, and that was merely to say, “Be ready for the next set of papers.” His request to Alma for Kirsten to telephone when she woke up netted nothing. He then called the two numbers for Dee Gautam and received the same recording at both; a flat female voice said nothing except “Leave a message.” He declined.
Marcus finally reached Ashley on his way into Raleigh. “I tried to call you last night.”
“Been out hunting and pecking.” The man’s voice sounded heavy with fatigue. “Not much to report, but I’m still digging.”
“I appreciate the effort, but I have to tell you, I don’t know how much money there’s going to be to go around. What the Halls had in ready capital, they spent on the ransom.”
“Don’t worry about that just now. First let’s fight us a case. We’ll haggle about filthy lucre when the battle’s done.”
The comment was as curious as the morning light, a hazy mixture of fog and blue sky that turned the entire world a shade of pewter. “I don’t recall meeting many attorneys who aren’t worried about having their bills paid.”
“Well, you’re new to this game, so let me share with you a simple truth.” The man took a noisy slurp of something, and sighed the words, “This work is addictive.”
“What work is that?”
“Fighting the good fight. Working for those who don’t have a voice. You just wait, old son. Something tells me you’ll have trouble going back to the same old, same old.”
Marcus mulled that over for a stretch of silver-tinted roadway, then said, “I heard from Dee Gautam last night.”
Beside him Darren shot over a single glance, before returning his full attention to the road ahead. Ashley said over the phone, “Yeah, he said he was gonna be sending you something he’d uncovered.”
“The documents are incredible. I tried to call him last night and again this morning, but he’s not around.”
“Dee has the ability to turn into a ghost when it suits him. Leave a message at the office. Sooner or later they’ll track him down.”
“I don’t think I can wait.”
There was a long pause. “Is what he sent helpful?”
Marcus had to confess, “It might just turn this whole case around.”
“Then I’d be careful, if I were you. You know what they say about overtight inspections of a gift horse. Dee Gautam has his ways, most of which are mysterious to the point of paranoia. But he’s a good man to have in your corner.”
UPON HIS ARRIVAL in the courtroom Marcus greeted Austin and Alma, then said, “Kirsten never called me back.”
The glance between them held much humor, buried deep but there just the same. Alma said, “I can’t do much more than pass on your messages.”
He nodded acceptance and turned to find Charlie beaming. “What are you grinning at?”
“Aw, nothing much. Just nice to see you waking up to the world again.”
Marcus ignored the harrumph of a laugh rising from Alma on his other side. “I need you to call the Swiss embassy. Ask for Hans Klein. He’s a deputy in their commercial section. Lay on the charm. Tell him he’s being subpoenaed for a case. We need him to testify as soon as possible.”
“You want me to make this sound urgent?”
“Urgent and vital. But be nice. We need him on our side. Once you’ve spoken with Klein, call the process server. You spoke with him yesterday. Tell him to go ahead and serve the papers. He already has them, and is waiting for your call.”
“This Klein fellow is likely to want to know what it’s about.”
“Tell him it has to do with a missing woman, not in Switzerland, but his testimony could determine whether the girl lives or dies.” Marcus fought back the rising tension. So much riding on a single thread. “Do your best. He has to come, Charlie. But I’d like him to come willingly. As soon as you know when he can appear, get back here and tell me.”
As Charlie rose and slipped from the room, Judge Nicols turned from her customary greeting to the jury and said, “All right, Mr. Glenwood, you may call your next witness.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. The plaintiff calls Grey Hadley to the stand.”
The man who pushed through the swinging gate was bespectacled, slender, fiftyish, and very angry. He glared at Marcus before making his way up to the waiting bailiff. He gave his oath and sat stiffly in the witness chair, irate and looking for a target.
Marcus had no choice but to move into range. “Mr. Hadley, you are acting assistant director for consular affairs within the U.S. State Department, is that correct?”
“Yes.” The man was a coiled snake, eager to strike. “And may I say that this subpoena could not have come at a worse moment. As you may know, we have a serious economic crisis brewing in Latin America, and I am due at a high-level conference in Brazil tomorrow morning.”
“Then we must endeavor to complete your testimony today,” Marcus replied equably.
“That is not good enough.” He turned to the judge. “I don’t have a day to give to this trial. I don’t have time to be here at all. I have position papers to prepare for Congressmen Williams and Jeffers, who are traveling down with me. This is absolutely vital work, critical to our nation’s interests.”
Marcus was grateful for the judge’s patience, as the man’s tirade showed the jury that Marcus was up against a hostile witness. Judge Nicols responded with the same quiet tone as Marcus. “The court is well aware of your pressing situation, which was why we agreed to subpoena you without delay. We require your testimony prior to your departure.”
“Really, judge, this is not—”
She hardened her gaze a fraction. “I would advise you, Mr. Hadley, to refrain from further protests, as they are only wasting the court’s time.” When the man chose wisely not to argue, she continued. “You may proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus stayed well back from the stand, placing the entire jury box between himself and the witness. “Speaking of position papers, Mr. Hadley, were you not responsible for the preliminary organization of the President’s visit to China five years ago?”
“Objection!” Logan leapt up. “Your Honor, this is in no way tied to the stated purpose of the subpoena. May I remind the court that the plaintiff was to ask about depositions of New Horizons officers!”
Marcus said to the judge, “If you will just permit a few questions, Your Honor, all will become clear.”
“All right, I’ll allow it,” she responded, the reservations clear in her tone. “Objection overruled, for the moment.”
Marcus asked, “Do you need the question repeated?”
“No. I—I don’t recall.”
Marcus hefted the documents sent by Ashley Granger. “Did you not prepare an overview for the President specifically related to Chinese factories that were pirating U.S. goods? Such a document, sent directly to the White House, does not seem to be something a person in your position could afford to forget.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.” The man’s anger was fading fast. “I do a lot of positi
on papers.”
“The plaintiff offers as documentary evidence this very paper, addressed to the White House and signed by the witness.” Marcus passed it to the court reporter, who numbered it and handed it to the judge.
Logan remained on his feet. “Your Honor, I must protest.”
“Overruled. Proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”
Marcus handed the witness a second copy. “Mr. Hadley, I ask you to turn with me to the top of page eleven. There you will find mentioned Factory 101 within the military-owned complex operated by one Zhao Ren-Fan, and located between Hong Kong and the city of Guangzhou.”
“Objection! This is not pertinent to this case, Your Honor.”
“I think I should be the one to decide what is and is not pertinent, Mr. Kendall.”
“Of course, Your Honor, but—”
“Wouldn’t you say that was my choice, Mr. Kendall?”
“Certainly, I merely—”
“Then why don’t you sit down and let us get on with this.” To Marcus, “Proceed, counselor.”
“There at the top of page eleven, Mr. Hadley. Would you please read for the court what you say about Factory 101?”
“I don’t—I’m not certain this …”
“Do you not state here, in a document you prepared for the President of the United States, that Factory 101 is one of the worst pirates operating within the textile industry? Do you not state that in black and white, Mr. Hadley?”
“I may have,” he muttered, now seeking to bury his face in the document. “There were several dozen such papers prepared by my subordinates. I can’t recall them all, often I just sign them.”
“But it is your signature there at the bottom of the document, is it not?”
“It appears to be, yes.”
“All right. Let’s go to the second paragraph on that page. The one where you describe how, because the factory is owned and operated by a high military official, this very same General Zhao Ren-Fan, it has been protected from closure. But New Horizons, a company that has been a major contributor to the President’s own campaign, had lodged an official complaint. Do you not state this, Mr. Hadley?”
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