T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“Hang on here. I’m smelling more than furniture polish in the air. Two low-level VPs with no knowledge of the international markets? Who are you kidding, Randall? Where are the board members?”

“I told you. They’re all in Switzerland.”

“Can I talk to them by phone?”

“No.” Randall turned to Logan’s senior partner for emphasis. “No way.”

Logan waited, giving his boss a chance to back him up. The older attorney remained stone-faced. Logan sighed. “Okay. Right now I need everything you can give me to build us a fire wall. You tell me there’s not just an arm’s length between these two companies, but a nine-thousand-mile gap. Is that correct?”

“Precisely.”

“I need proof, Randall. You’ve heard that word before, I assume.”

The senior partner shook his head and said mildly, “Logan.”

But he would not be stopped. “Proof is what we’re after, Randall. Proof that I can wave in front of the judge’s nose.”

“It’s right next door.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

The senior partner and Randall did not move. Randall said, “I want to make a request.”

Logan glanced from one to the other. “What, you two had a strategy session and forgot to invite the defending attorney? Guys, in case it’s slipped your tiny minds, my good name is the one on the line here.”

“Logan, Randall merely said-”

“It’s all right.” But Randall’s expression did not back up his words. One glance was enough for Logan to know it was not all right at all. Randall was watching him cautiously, measuring vigilantly. Logan knew he was proving to be more of a handful than Randall had ever anticipated. Which was good. Because Glenwood was threatening to present the exact same risk. Randall went on, “New Horizons has an extensive trade relationship with Factory 101 in China. But we don’t want you to admit this tomorrow.”

Logan gaped at the two older men. “You’re both certifiably insane.”

“Not at all.”

“Tomorrow is the next-to-last meeting in-chambers before we go to trial!”

“We have to determine,” Randall went on, pressing down hard on each word, “exactly how much Marcus knows.”

The senior partner spoke, “We realize this is a lot to ask.”

“What’s this we business? Who’s side are you on?”

“We’re all on the same side.” The senior partner patted his head of burnished silver, adding contentedly, “Randall Walker is offering to grant us a significant portion of the New Horizons corporate account. An account you would personally manage.”

Logan settled back in his chair. “All right. I’m listening.”

Randall said, “New Horizons’ relationship with Factory 101 is a critical part of their overall import business. One we would prefer not to have exposed to the light of an American courtroom. So we need you to hold back and see if Marcus Glenwood has managed to come up with the impossible.”

Logan mulled that over, then demanded, “So just how much trade do they do with these Chinese guys?”

On the ride back after the pig picking, Deacon sat up front because Austin insisted. A glance in the rearview mirror was enough to reveal the reason why: Austin spent the journey locked upon the view out the side window, eyes blind and face weary in the way of one whose sleep was stolen. The mood in the car remained thoughtful and quiet until Marcus turned back onto the state road and reentered familiar territory. Then Deacon eased himself about, until he was leaning against the door and able to watch Marcus and Charlie both. “Did you ever know Marcus’ granddaddy, Mr. Charlie?”

“No, can’t say I ever had the favor.”

“Old Mr. Horace was a fine man. Real fine. Helped build our church, in a manner of speaking.”

Marcus quickly glanced over. “What?”

“Those fields out between the cemetery and the rise, they once belonged to Mr. Horace. They were deeded to him in a settlement. Back when I was just starting out my days at the pulpit, lightning struck the old church. Least, that’s what we figured it was. Big storm passed late one night. Next morning we didn’t have nothing but ashes. That church was built by freed slaves with the first money they earned. Lots of wailing by their grandchildren and great-grandchildren the day after that storm. Didn’t have nothing left but a bell and four cornerstones. Lost it all.”

“Hard blow,” Charlie offered.

“Marcus’ granddaddy came by that very same day, deeded the land over to us. Said he had no use for bottom land, he wasn’t no farmer and never would be. Shame to let good tobacco land go to waste.”

“I never knew any of this,” Marcus said.

“We farmed that land and sold the crop and built the new church. Yes, Mr. Horace was a fine man. And my, but he could talk.” The memory caused Deacon to smile. “Talk the hind leg off a dead mule. Talk all day and all night.”

Charlie asked, “Marcus, your granddaddy was a tobacco auctioneer, do I recall that straight?”

“Until his stroke.” But Marcus was caught by the memory of an old man who, once settled by his wife into the corner rocker, neither moved nor spoke. Marcus’ grandfather had watched his growing-up years and never uttered a sound. For a born talker, it must have been an assignment in hell itself.

The car was silenced and sobered by passing the red-brick sign announcing the entrance to the New Horizons complex. One corner remained broken and scarred where Marcus had clipped it. A team was busy erecting a burnished copper shield on top of the brick, one bearing the star-and-rainbow logo and embossed with the world-famous command to GET IN GEAR. They took the downward-sloping curve through the forest, reentered the light where the road flattened and revealed the church. Marcus studied the surrounding fields with new interest. “Hard to believe all this started with them wanting to move the cemetery.”

Deacon shifted impatiently. “Wasn’t the cemetery and it didn’t start there.”

Marcus started to say how he was speaking of his own involvement. But he sensed something more than just casual conversation in Deacon’s tone. “What do you mean?”

The old man was long in responding. They were approaching Marcus’ street before he finally said, “Some things are harder to talk about than others. Dark spots you wish never happened, shadows you can’t never wash off.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

He might as well not have spoken. “Cropping the tobacco we raised on the land your granddaddy gave us, the collections we gathered, it was enough to put up the walls and get in the windows. But we were short almost two thousand dollars. Winter was coming, and the man wouldn’t roof the building till he got paid. Back then it was Baker Mills on the hill behind our place, not New Horizons.”

“Old man Baker was a piece of work,” Charlie offered.

“Evil man,” Deacon muttered, his voice as tight as his gaze. “Carried the dark ’round with him. Grass died where he stepped.”

“I had him appear in my courtroom a couple of times,” Charlie went on. “Felt like ordering the bailiff to wash the place down with lye after he left.”

Marcus pulled up in front of his house, cut the motor, turned so he could study Deacon, who went on, “Old man Baker came by my house. Said how he’d give us the two thousand, and five hundred more for two stained-glass windows. But he wanted use of the church all winter, every Friday and Saturday night. I asked him what for. He gave me a grin I will carry with me to the grave and said, ‘Far as you’re concerned, it’s just a few friends looking for a place to have a good time.’ ”

“They were gambling,” Charlie suggested.