T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“Your Honor, I object! This is just more fiction cooked up by a man desperate for publicity!”

“All right, Mr. Kendall.”

“This is trial by slander, Your Honor.”

“That’s enough, Mr. Kendall. I am turning down your motion to dismiss.” She picked up her pen. “Being new to the job, I find my docket is almost entirely free. I understand the defense is requesting a speedy trial?”

“It’s the only way to halt the plaintiff’s ludicrous plans to drag my client through the mud.”

“I said that was enough.” Mild this time, aware the defense was smarting from the news that the case was headed for the public eye. Her glare was now directed at Marcus, as was the sterner tone. “Mr. Glenwood, this is for the record. I am concerned to see you here, taking up the court’s time with such a matter, acting on your own. Are you sure you are up for this?”

“I think so, Your Honor.”

“Well, I have my doubts. I am very familiar with your background. While I might offer you sympathy outside this courtroom, in these chambers I am bound to uphold the law and the rights of everyone involved.” She leaned across her desk. “So I want you to think very hard about taking on this matter. I would hate to be forced to declare you incompetent.”

Marcus ignored the round-eyed glances among the defense team as best he could. “So would I, Your Honor.”

“If you violate the rules of this court, I will sanction you heavily. If you mishandle the litigants’ rights and claims in any way, I will personally see that your license comes up for review.” She let that sink in a moment, then leaned back and said, “The defense has requested we move forward with this. I agree. Final pretrial hearings will take place tomorrow morning at nine. Trial is set to begin next week. You people are dismissed.”

Marcus made his way slowly toward the door, allowing the defense team to draw well ahead. At the doorway he turned and said quietly, “Thank you very much, Judge.”

Gladys Nicols did not look up from her writing. “Now what do you suppose has got the defense in such an all-fired hurry?”

“I was just asking myself the same thing.”

The judge could very well have been speaking to herself. “Must be something mighty big, whatever it is.”

Marcus nodded and shut the door behind him.

The telephone call came in the middle of that same afternoon. Marcus bolted from the house, shouting to Netty words he scarcely heard himself as he raced for the car. He hit ninety miles per hour on the Raleigh highway, and made it to the Halls’ subdivision in record time. He parked down the road, as the drive and the street in front of their house were already blocked by gray government sedans.

Alma Hall answered the door, tight-lipped and grim. “Thank the heavens above.”

“You haven’t said anything?”

“Not a word. But if you’d taken much longer, blood would’ve flowed.”

“Don’t let them goad you, Alma.”

“I’m trying.” She led him inside. “Goodness knows, I’m trying just as hard as I know how.”

Marcus entered the living room and walked straight over to Austin. He said simply, “Hold on.”

Austin rose with the others. His expression was as tight as his houndstooth necktie. “That man there says they’re going to arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Marcus rounded on a roomful of cold gazes. “What a lovely picture that would make for the six o’clock news. Respected members of the black community are jailed for sending money to their missing daughter.”

The man closest to him had features sharp as his voice. “This is a private meeting.”

Alma Hall said, “This man is Marcus Glenwood. He is our attorney. And he is a lot more welcome in this house than you are.”

“I’d like to see some identification, please.” Marcus pulled a pad and pen from his jacket. “From everyone.”

There were two FBI agents from the Raleigh office, a State Bureau man, a sheriff’s deputy in plainclothes, and an assistant prosecutor from the district attorney’s office. Marcus took his time over the IDs, giving everyone a breather, gently asserting control. “All right. What’s this about pressing charges?”

“We were informed that a ransom had been paid.” The prosecutor, Wayde Barrett, possessed the aggressive attitude of someone who bullied for pleasure. “That is a felony.”

“It’s strictly a nuisance charge.” Marcus addressed the FBI agents. “I can’t believe you would be a party to this sham.”

“Aw, these fellows got roped in the same as me.” The deputy sheriff had the long flat drawl of the Carolina coastal plains. He dangled a white Stetson from the fingers of one hand. “Somebody called the office, said they were making a major arrest, and we needed to be part of the action.” He turned to the silent gray-suited men. “Ain’t that right.”

This only increased the prosecutor’s ire. “Funding a felonious crime is a serious offense!”

“This is absolute rubbish,” Marcus told the room.

“Why don’t we all take a load off,” the deputy suggested.

All did, save the prosecutor, which left him looking like a soapbox orator. “You could lose your license to practice law for this!”

The deputy had a long neck with skin so loose it hung like a chicken’s craw over his collar. But his eyes were sharp as ice-blue blades, and there was not an ounce of fat on his six-foot frame. He spoke to Marcus as though they were the only people in the room. “You’re that feller who moved back over to his granddaddy’s place in Rocky Mount.”

“That’s right.”

He hitched up one trouser leg, revealing a lizard skin boot. “You as big a troublemaker as they been saying?”

“Absolutely,” Marcus replied. “Who is they?”

“Aw, you know how talk goes ’round in these parts.” The deputy leaned forward, offered a hard-callused hand. “Amos Culpepper.”

“Nice to meet you.” The man’s grip was like iron. “Is that why they sent you, to warn me?”

“I’m not in the warning business, Mr. Glenwood. One thing I’m not looking forward to when the sheriff retires next spring and I take over is dealing with folks who’d like to tell me my business.”

“I had a local businessman bring a man by my house the other night. A man who rammed my car when I visited New Horizons. The pair threatened me.” Marcus’ voice grated in his own ears. “I didn’t like it either.”

Exasperated at being ignored, the prosecutor snapped, “How about we talk about something that matters!”

The deputy disregarded him entirely. He asked Marcus, “You file a complaint?”

“There was nothing substantive said or done. But the threat was there.”

“You got names?”

“The spokesman was Hank Atterly. He called the muscle Lonnie.”

The prosecutor flopped down on the sofa opposite Marcus and fumed, “This is absurd.”

“Know Hank well. The other name doesn’t ring a bell.” The deputy swished his tongue about like someone searching for a chaw that wasn’t there. “You get a good look at that other fellow?”

“Lean, reddish gray crew cut, big nasty pickup, redneck accent.” Marcus heard the wreck and the threat anew. “There was a second man at the New Horizons attack. He was heavyset and balding. I only saw him for an instant in my rearview mirror before he broke the back windshield with a baseball bat.”

The prosecutor demanded, “Can we get back to the business at hand?”

The deputy showed him a cold eye. “I don’t know what your business is, bub. Mine is fighting crime.” Back to Marcus. “Lots of local families eat food bought with New Horizons paychecks. Looks to me like you’d stay healthy longer if you didn’t blow smoke straight in their faces.”