The Great Divide

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Not anymore, Kirsten. All I need to know is: Are you holding out anything that could have an effect on this trial?”

  “No.” Solid and swift. “I’ve finished going through Gloria’s things. There were some more papers about the shipments from the Chinese factory, but that’s all.” A moment’s hesitation, then a much smaller voice asked, “You don’t care anymore, is that it?”

  “No, not at all.” Her evident pain invited more of a response than that. Marcus glanced at the front seat, but the two men were deep into some quiet discussion and paying him no mind. “Kirsten, we all have our mysteries.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How can I demand that you tell me things when I have so much I don’t want to talk about myself?” An image of Suzie Rikkers and her baleful glare drifted in and out of focus. The only question for Kirsten he had at the moment pertained to Gary Loh, and even this was tainted by what he would soon be facing. “So long as you’re not withholding evidence we need for the trial, I’m out of bounds asking you anything at all.”

  Marcus had a long moment of listening to the overpowered engine’s muted roar, the dull murmurs from the front seat, the hum of tires and wind. Then the same small voice asked, “What if I want to tell you things anyway?”

  He felt his heart leap in his chest. “That is another thing entirely. But it will have to wait awhile. Today or tomorrow the press is going to attack, and I want you to handle them.”

  The voice sounded childlike in its surprise. “Me?”

  “Charlie and I have to prepare for next week.” As best they could, he amended silently. “You are to be the plaintiff’s appointed spokeswoman. Are Alma and Austin there?”

  “Downstairs waiting for me.”

  “Tell them what’s going to happen. Ask them if they want to tell the world their story. If yes, then print up some flyers giving their address, telling the press where and when to meet for daily Q-and-A’s. But if the Halls want their privacy, you need to arrange the meetings with the press downtown at the courthouse. The guards will let you in, we can arrange that.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’ll want to be involved in this.”

  “Call Netty, ask her to help with the flyers. Print a lot of them. Inform the police. They’ll need to station some people there at the house.”

  A long pause, then, “How can you be so sure about this?”

  “You’ll find out,” Marcus replied, “very soon.”

  He cut the connection in time to hear Amos Culpepper say, “There’s room in our department for a few solid fellows like yourself, Darren.”

  Darren’s head swung in slow surprise. “I d-don’t t-talk so good.”

  “Shoot. We got men out there on the road, they don’t talk at all. You call them on the radio, they click one for yes, two for no. Only thing you ever hear. Lone Rangers, we call ’em. Get two of ’em chatting over the air, sounds like a party of grasshoppers.” When Darren did not respond, Amos pulled the car up in front of the courthouse and said, “You think about it, get back to me anytime.”

  MARCUS ENTERED the courthouse to muted fanfare. Amos Culpepper had called ahead; Jim Bell was there with two other deputies, all wanting to know how he was, and how on earth he had discovered the bomb in time. A friend, Marcus said. And luck.

  Jim Bell drew him over to one side and said, “My granny used to say there were people who lived a thin life. She meant they were just an inch or so away from death. I’d say that applies to you, Marcus.”

  “I’m trying to be careful.”

  “You need to do more than that. You need to be worried.” He lowered his voice a notch. “You understand, the judge doesn’t know I’m talking with you, and can’t ever know.”

  Marcus studied the bearded man with his taut bearing and eyes that said one thing while his words said another. “I hear you.”

  He patted Marcus’ arm, as though sealing a bargain. “The governor’s aide is upstairs in the courtroom.”

  MARCUS DID NOT BOTHER to search the faces. It would do no good. He was utterly unconnected politically and had no idea who to look for. He did nod to Kirsten, however, and was rewarded with a smile that he felt in his bones. It shielded him from the first sight of Suzie Rikkers’ glare, and the foreboding of all that was yet to come. He dropped into his seat and addressed the Halls together. “Did Kirsten speak with you?”

  Alma answered for them both. “We’re going to shout this from the rooftops.”

  “That’s your decision. Long as you both understand that you don’t have to say a word.”

  Austin leaned over his wife, and said, “Yes, we most surely do.”

  Alma asked, “What’s this I hear about a bomb?”

  “The police are taking care of it right now. They say I should have my car back this evening.”

  “That’s not good enough, Marcus. I’m going to speak with Deacon Wilbur at lunchtime.”

  “I doubt he can do much about this, Alma.”

  Her reply was cut short by the bailiff intoning, “All rise.”

  Judge Gladys Nicols went through her morning ritual of greeting the jury with one eye on the defense table and one somewhere toward the back of the courthouse. She did not seem particularly pleased by either sight. But all she said was, “Plaintiff may call the next witness.”

  Charlie rose to his feet and said, “Your Honor, at this time we’d like to call Professor Sara Seymour.”

  An older woman with a tightly seamed face approached the stand and was sworn in. Charlie took his time as he went through the routine of establishing her as an expert witness on modern-day China. Marcus listened and was pleased with his decision to have Charlie handle her. Sara Seymour held to the tedious monotone of someone who wished to be elsewhere. But Charlie’s unfeigned interest not only drew her out, it helped to hold the jury’s attention. Charlie knew nothing about Chinese power politics. Whatever she said, however cut-and-dried, he found fascinating. And so did the jury. Charlie drew from her the critical information—that in China, power was power. Business or government, money or politics, courtroom or backroom or military, there was little or no difference. The professor became gradually caught up in the process of teaching, and added a touch of academic energy to her explanation of how such a system utterly lacked any form of checks and balances. Why? Because the people who held political or military power used their might to gather business connections and property and licenses. For them, profit from bribery and the sale of corporate rights was merely an acceptable perk of holding high office. Since their tentacles stretched out in so many directions, any attempt at reform was hobbled by entrenched self-interests and greed. And because the process of reform was so hampered, the laws and the courts could not keep up with the rapid transformation of commerce and industry. Thus China’s business environment was almost medieval in its approach to workers’ rights. Charlie Hayes took his time and showed deep gratitude for anything the professor wished to say.

  Throughout the testimony, Judge Nicols cast occasional brooding glances at the defense table, which was perhaps why Logan Kendall offered no objections to Charlie’s rambling discourse. When Charlie rested, Logan avoided meeting the judge’s eyes as he rose and offered a halfhearted cross. He finished in record time, drawing from the professor the single admission that there was indeed a court system in China, with laws governing both commerce and crime. One that conceivably could be used to try a case such as this one.

  Yet when Logan returned to his table, Judge Nicols merely excused the witness and continued her glaring inspection of the defense team. Every eye in the courtroom was drawn to the tableau, unchanged from the first day. Logan sat in the far-left chair, followed by Suzie Rikkers and three or four dark-suited associates. Behind them and next to the railing were the two New Horizons vice presidents. Two secretaries huddled next to them, flanked by boxes of documents and law books.

  Judge Nicols allowed the moment to stretch until the jury was shifting uncomfortably and observers we
re exchanging glances and whispered queries. She finally turned to Marcus and said, “Well?”

  Marcus rose slowly, trapped in the amber of his own imminent demise. He did not need to look toward Suzie Rikkers to know what was coming. And there was no way to stop it. None. “The plaintiff rests, Your Honor.”

  The judge merely nodded and turned back to the defense. Finally she said, “We seem to be missing a defendant, Mr. Kendall.”

  “Your Honor.” Logan rose with the reluctance of an attorney who could neither anticipate nor control what was coming. “I have this morning received a letter from the Chinese embassy in Washington, D.C. The government of China has officially responded to your request.”

  “Have they, now.” The tone was even more threatening for being so muted. “They have officially responded to my request.”

  “The government of China takes great offense at this subpoena, Your Honor. They remind this court that General Zhao Ren-Fan is a man of immense power within their regime, a member of the military’s central command. They refuse categorically to submit to such an affront.”

  “An affront.” The murmur was scarcely audible.

  “They declare your request contrary to international law and demand that it be withdrawn.” The letter rattled in Logan’s hand. “They warn that a serious diplomatic breach could result.”

  “Do they now.” She held out one black-robed arm. “May I see the letter, please.”

  She took a long moment to read the letter, then set it down and said to Logan, “All right. I’m listening.”

  “There is a serious jurisdiction issue here, Your Honor. This court does not hold authority over a Chinese owner of a Chinese factory.” Logan stepped around the table and took a solid stance. He was practiced, he was ready, he was on the offensive. “Even if this court could assert jurisdiction, which I submit is impossible, the defense attaché to the Chinese embassy is not a necessary party to this case.”

  Judge Nicols picked up the letter once more, dividing her attention between the embassy’s words and Logan’s. The defense attorney continued, “Furthermore, we are already too far down the road in this case to add an additional defendant. We would have to declare a mistrial and start over.”

  “Would we,” Judge Nicols murmured.

  “Yes, Your Honor, we would. This case, were it to include a senior official of a foreign sovereign power, would be a matter for Congress or the State Department to resolve. Not this courtroom.” Logan punched the air between himself and Marcus. “If this is what the plaintiff wants, if he wants to turn this into a political trial, and if you think the court can establish jurisdiction in this matter, fine. Then we don’t have a dog in this fight. We move to dismiss.”

  Judge Nicols drew out the moment before quietly demanding, “Are you done?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. We hereby move to dismiss.”

  “Your motion is denied.” She swung her gaze toward her chief clerk, who stood ready and waiting beside the court reporter. “I hereby issue a bench warrant, a writ of habeas corpus for General Zhao Ren-Fan.”

  Logan took the news as he would a hammer blow to the chest. “Your Honor!”

  “I hereby order the U.S. marshal to escort this man into court.”

  Logan struggled to recover. “He’ll bolt, Your Honor.”

  Her eyes swiveled back with the smoothness of matched gun barrels. “Is that a fact.”

  “Absolutely. He’ll flee the country and you’ll be left with a huge political mess on your hands.”

  “Fine. In that case, this court has no choice but to protect the plaintiffs’ interests in the event the jury finds in their favor.” She hefted the letter from the Chinese embassy. “As their government has chosen to declare itself officially involved, and as this man is now recognized as a senior member of their government and is acting in an official capacity, I am hereby freezing all assets of the Chinese government now held by any and all United States financial institutions.” She hammered once, not even trying to still the uproar, merely shifting her glare to some unseen point toward the back of the court and saying, “One final point, Mr. Logan. The defense is hereby requested to present to the court someone who holds the power to respond to questions about New Horizons’ international activities. That sounds like a reasonable request to you, now, doesn’t it?”

  Logan replied weakly, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I’m so glad.” Her smile was truly awful to observe. “Court is now adjourned until nine o’clock Monday morning.”

  AS MARCUS STOOD with the others, Alma used the moment of confusion to ask, “Did you know this was going to happen?”

  “I assumed General Zhao would not show. And the judge would feel forced to respond.”

  Charlie almost shouted to be heard, “The Chinese government weighing in like that—now, that was a gift from on high.”

  Marcus nodded, both to show his agreement and to hide from the raking glare Suzie Rikkers gave as she passed. “Tell Kirsten to be ready for a siege.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ON SATURDAY Marcus woke to the remarkable sensation that he had actually fought back against his predawn foes. He arose weak and shaking as usual, but holding to a shred of satisfaction. The loss seemed foreordained, as though there were but one outcome to the strife that scarred his every morning. But at least this day he had joined in battle.

  Charlie arrived early, bringing breakfast in the form of baskets and casserole dishes and Libby’s message that the best answer to any trouble on this earth was a good feed. Together they ate and studied the news.

  The newspapers and the television were both full of their story: what the Chinese embassy said and what Washington said and what the judge was not saying. Photographs of Alma and Austin Hall figured prominently. Netty arrived and soon tired of the journalists’ renewed telephone onslaught. She put a message on the answering machine saying that all queries should be directed to Kirsten Stanstead, and gave the Halls’ number. Darren camped out on the front porch and scared away any who made it to the wilds of Rocky Mount. Marcus and Charlie hunkered down and plotted against the defense’s coming attack.

  They sat through the evening news in stunned amazement. CBS had it as the second story of the night. The newscaster began by saying what had begun as a tempest in a Carolina teapot was now brewing up the latest international crisis. They showed Kirsten standing beautiful and resolute. Her measured tones were in direct contrast to Alma Hall’s furious tirade against New Horizons. They then showed the picture of Gloria Hall laughing on the stairway, followed by fifteen seconds of her bruised and battered face asking for money. They finally cut to the spokesman for the Chinese embassy saying his government would not stand for such outrage and was considering a large number of retaliatory measures. The Chinese official was not merely angry, he sounded downright evil.

  Charlie had the good grace to wait until Netty had left and he was putting on his coat to finally say, “Suzie Rikkers is gonna come at you like a razor-backed hog.”

  Marcus could not help staring. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you.”

  “Didn’t take much in the way of figuring. She represented your wife at the divorce, didn’t she.”

  “It was more like representing my ex-mother-in-law.”

  Charlie shrugged his indifference to such nitpicking. “Logan’s got more of a brain for strategy than I figured.”

  Marcus saw his old mentor out, then stood on the veranda as Charlie did his bandy-legged gait into the shadows. “You’re a good friend, Charlie Hayes.”

  The old man wheeled about and made his way back up the stairs, as though he had been waiting for just such a chance to say, “I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Marcus. I’d have paid all my remaining years for what you’ve given me for free.”

  Marcus nodded. “It’s turned into quite a case.”

  Charlie’s gaze reached out of the night and gripped him hard. “Son, I wasn’t talking about the case.”

  ON SUNDAY Marcus aw
oke to sunlight and the chill of distant thunder. The nightmares had not come at all. Instead, they seemed to loom just over the horizon. Even while he slipped from bed and showered and breakfasted and prepared for church, he felt the brooding menace of what had not been.

  The church’s welcome enveloped him like the embrace of an old friend. Deacon Wilbur slipped back to say merely, “We’ll be taking measures to see you stay safe.” Marcus was too held by his own accompanying shadow to respond with more than a nod. He entered the church, and felt his entire body drink in the noise and the peace.

  Impossible harmonies. Marcus remained surrounded by noise and peace both, protected and yet utterly exposed. The singing gave way to prayers, and still the congregation shouted responses and clapped and waved their hands. Marcus sat in quiet repose because he was a quiet man. The sounds and the words washed over him, settling him further into himself. All the times before, all the other visits to this church and all the realizations he had made and the comfort he had found, all had been building a foundation, preparing him for this descent into himself.

  Marcus sat and felt the moment unfold. Calm and sheltered, exposed and vulnerable and suddenly terrified. And listening. Not to the noise around him, but to his own internal world. The noise outside crashed like waves upon his secret island, the colors and the people rising and dancing and sitting and filling the aisles like a tumultuous sea. He just sat. And in his quietly watchful state, he observed the shadow approach.

  He wanted to run. Even before he knew what it was, he wanted to flee with every scrap of his being. He was not ready for this, and never would be. But still it came.

  Then he felt what had become customary in the predawn hour. He was unable to move, to stand, even to breathe. Trapped in the amber of this lucid moment, he was both awake and more aware than ever before.

  Sunday after Sunday he had been sitting there and listening and learning to listen better. Being quiet and letting the silence speak. Now he sat and watched the shadow congeal into his greatest terrors, and felt so betrayed he wanted to shriek and scream until his vocal cords were ripped from his own throat. But he could not even draw enough breath to moan.