T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“That and more,” Deacon replied darkly. “A whole mess more.”

Charlie struck his knee with the flat of one hand. “I heard tales of their wild ways. Probably got run off someplace by the law, were looking for somewhere that wouldn’t get raided.”

“They fouled our church for a whole winter. Shot out both the stained-glass windows soon as we got them in. We didn’t ever replace them neither, not till we had money of our own.” Deacon breathed heavy, shook his head. “Come May and planting season I went by old man Baker’s house. Took the elders with me, couldn’t make that journey on my own. Told him we were starting a weekend Bible school, and he was gonna have to find some other place to meet. Old man Baker said maybe we’d find use for two thousand dollars more. No sir, I told him, the time for sinning was done. He gave me that same old death’s-head grin of his, and said how it’d be a shame to have to burn the place down again.”

The look Deacon gave Marcus was full of hard-earned knowledge. “Only one way to handle men like that. Got to stand up, stand strong, fight the good fight.”

Wednesday morning Marcus sat in one corner of Federal District Judge Gladys Nicols’ outer office. He was relegated to a straight-backed chair because the defense team, seven in number, had arrived ahead of him. They clustered around the sofa and side chairs in the far corner and raked him with angry glances. The only greeting he received was from Jim Bell, the retired patrolman on receptionist duty, who approached them every half hour to apologize for the judge’s being so late. They had been kept waiting almost two hours, but Marcus was too preoccupied to give either the defense team or the time much notice.

He sat and turned the pages of his dispositive motions, and pondered the mysteries the morning had revealed. Some of his questions were even about the trial.

“Morning, Marcus.”

He slapped the file shut and rose to his feet. “Logan.”

The man standing before him had a dancer’s body and a butcher’s face. Logan Kendall’s forehead formed a broad shelf with which he liked to bull his way through the opposition. From a distance Logan looked ruggedly handsome, the image heightened by his smooth voice and tailored suits and flashy ties. Up close it was possible to see the scar tissue under his eyes and where his nose had been surgically rebuilt.

Logan offered a smirk instead of his hand. “Nice to know you’ve recovered enough to join the walking wounded.”

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I noticed you over here all by yourself, still trying to cobble together a case.” Logan jerked about, the move shockingly swift. This was another of his little traits, revealing his boxer’s speed in lightning motions. Especially when standing in his opponent’s space. He pointed to the sole woman on his dark-suited team. “Of course you remember Suzie.”

Marcus ignored her irate glare. “What do you want, Logan?”

“Just thought I’d give you one last chance to drop out with your skin still intact.” He kept his tone light and low, so that the receptionist could hear nothing but a faint lyrical drone. “You know Suzie’s just dying to finish the job she started during your last court appearance.”

“I’d be happy to drop the case, and I told Randall Walker exactly how and when.”

Logan blinked. “You talked to Randall?”

It was Marcus’ turn to softly chant, “Looks to me like there’s a communication problem between client and counsel.”

Logan recovered as best he could. “I assume he didn’t pass it on because your offer was utterly without merit. Just like your case.”

“Nice talking with you, Logan.” As his opponent was turning away, Marcus was struck by a sudden thought, and asked, “What does the term lao gai mean to you?”

Logan’s step did not falter. “I’m not here to play word games, Marcus. I’m here to nail your hide to the wall.”

Instead of returning to his seat, Marcus walked to the window. The mist had burned off to reveal a sun-splashed day. The federal courthouse was a relatively new encroachment into what was known as Old Raleigh. The region east of the governor’s mansion was a hodgepodge formed by decades of tragic decline. From his perch on the seventh floor, Marcus could see four Victorian-era manors, a muffler shop, a restaurant specializing in grits and grease, and two drunks arguing over a bottle. He stood there thinking of the last time he had himself heard that strange-sounding term: lao gai .

Ashley Granger, the Washington lawyer, had called that morning. “I expected to get your office machine.”

“My office is in my home.”

“Sorry it’s taken so long. And sorry to have called you so early. But I just got woken up by someone who could finally tell me something worth passing on.” A pause, then the further excuse that “It’s late afternoon over there in China.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Give me a second to pour another cup of coffee and grab a pen.”

When he returned, Ashley began. “Factory 101.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes what is not said is as important as what you actually hear. You follow?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I faxed and e-mailed some contacts I have in the Hong Kong and Guangzhou regions. They instantly cut all connections, like they’d vanished from the face of the earth. I called some others. Soon as they heard who was on the line, they hung up. Even before I asked my first question, they were gone.”

“Something big must be happening there.”

“You’re partly right but mostly wrong. An occupational hazard when dealing with China. It’s not what’s happening that stops people talking.”

“But who is behind it,” Marcus guessed.

“See, you’re learning. Monday I finally hired a local lawyer. I didn’t need a lawyer, you understand. I needed to purchase information. This particular lawyer is middling honest. All their local business derives from one central source, and they learn to bend and shape the meaning of honesty around what this central source tells them is that day’s flavor.”

“I’m not sure my clients will approve payment to a Chinese counsel at this time,” Marcus warned.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. By this point I wanted to find out what had everybody in a lather. For that I needed a local source.”

“Is that risky for you?”

“I’ll find out my next trip over. Right now, I can officially confirm that Factory 101 is definitely a lao gai prison.”

“Just like Dee Gautam said.”

“Yeah, that little weasel was right again. ’Course, he wouldn’t give me the time of day when I asked. Hates dealing in rumors, old Dee does. Told me to get involved and dig for myself. Which I did.” Ashley Granger was clearly enjoying himself. “You ever heard of a place called Daolin?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Doesn’t matter. The thing is, lao gai are located all over the country. Local governments use them as a dumping ground for troublemakers.”

“If they’re so commonplace, why wouldn’t people talk to you?”

“Exactly. Daolin is the answer, or part of it. It’s a farming community north of Guangzhou. The local population rioted there twice in the past two years. This is big stuff. The farmers were the backbone of Mao’s revolution. For years they’ve been chafing under the double burden of artificially low prices and Communist Party corruption. The local party buys all their crop at prices set by Beijing. These same local officials demand bribes for everything-seeds, tools, use of communal machinery, birth certificates, travel permits. The corruption keeps getting worse, the prices stay the same.”