T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Logan could not let that one go. “Objection, Your Honor, you-”

“Mr. Kendall, I do not approve of such shenanigans any more than the magistrate.” Her voice was cold and hard as dark iron. “Try anything like that in my courtroom and I’ll hold you in contempt.” She looked back to Marcus. “Anything else?”

“Yes there is. We have received no response to any of our subpoenas of corporate board members. None of them was available to grant testimony.”

“Well, Mr. Logan? Of the-how many subpoenas did you issue, Mr. Glenwood?”

“Thirty-six, Your Honor.”

“Of the thirty-six requested depositions, how many officers are available to give testimony?”

Logan cleared his throat. “The two senior vice presidents of the local distribution company, Your Honor.”

“I don’t see those titles on this list.”

“Neither hold board-level positions, Your Honor,” Marcus said. “They would therefore know next to nothing about the Chinese partnership.”

“We deny that such a partnership exists!”

Judge Nicols extended the sheet of names to Logan. “Where are all these people?”

“Out of the country, Your Honor. This trial coincides with the annual corporate meeting in Switzerland.”

Marcus said, “I hereby request the court’s intervention in having the State Department order embassy officials in Bern to take depositions of all these corporate officers.”

“So ruled.” Judge Nicols slapped the file shut. “Nothing further? All right. We begin jury selection bright and early Monday morning.”

As usual Marcus lingered and allowed time for the defense to depart ahead of him, discussing the weather with the judge’s receptionist-guard. Jim Bell had a countryman’s corded strength and a gentleman’s beard, white and cropped tight to his face. He sat on the narrow chair as he would a saddle, solid and very erect. With the directness of one born in the eastern flatlands, where people spoke sparingly and straight, he dropped the issue of a possible early frost to say, “I lost a daughter two days before her tenth birthday. Like to have killed me and the wife both. Been nineteen years and the wound hasn’t healed yet.”

For an instant Marcus supposed the man was speaking of his own accident, and the pain was like someone having dropped his heart onto a red-hot skillet. Then he breathed and pushed away the pain, knowing he had to be mistaken. No one who had suffered thus would ever willingly blindside another so afflicted.

No, the guard had to be speaking of Gloria. “You’ve been following the Hall case?”

“I listen, and the others around here have been talking.”

“Every day we don’t hear anything more, I find myself hoping a little less.”

The bearded man nodded agreement. “Handled a few kidnappings in my day. Not many. The first few weeks were always make or break.”

“You were a highway patrolman?”

“Thirty-one years. Some nights I still dream of the open road.” His smile was surprisingly gentle. “How’s the Hall family holding out?”

“About like you’d expect. Worried sick. Not sleeping well. Everything is a crisis.” Which brought to mind the recent confrontation at their house. “Do you know an assistant DA by the name of Wayde Barrett?”

“He’s whipped through here a few times.”

“What’s your impression of him?”

“If I found him on my shoe, I’d use a long twig to scrape him off.” The easy tone did not alter. “I hear tell the man can be bought.”

“Is that a fact?”

“No sir. But it’s a rumor I’ve heard more than once.”

Marcus turned toward the door. “I appreciate that bit of news.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Glenwood. You take care, now.”

Marcus’ thoughts remained a jumble of unsorted pieces as he came out of the judge’s chambers. The long hallway leading back to the elevators was empty, which was hardly surprising, for Judge Nicols occupied that entire side of the building. Another judge’s suite opened from the hall’s other end. Opposite the elevators was a marble-tiled foyer with a fountain that no longer worked. Opening off this were two federal courtrooms. Marcus was walking down the long empty hallway when someone turned in from the foyer and approached him. The man was small and gray and nondescript. He carried a file like a manila shield over his middle. His footfalls were as soft as dead air.

Marcus nodded a greeting as they passed. The man gave a little smile, and just as he came level with Marcus, he struck.

The blow was too powerful to have come from such a small man. Marcus felt as though the fist reached in through his gut, probing for his heart. He collapsed over the arm in a convulsion of agony and escaping breath.

The man was ready for this. He held Marcus upright and slammed him backward. But instead of striking the wall, Marcus fell through a door.

Hands were there to catch him. Three pairs of hands. They dragged him fully into the bathroom. The little gray man kicked inside the briefcase Marcus had dropped. “Watch the door.”

Marcus focused enough to realize the three men wore masks of nylon mesh. The little gray man stepped forward and slammed his fist a second time into Marcus’ belly. Marcus doubled over in dry heaves. Air was impossible to find. His lungs burned worse than his gut.

A hand gripped his hair, plucking his head upward. A wad of material was crammed into his mouth. Marcus gagged, fought the arms that held him. He still could not find enough air.

“Stand him up.”

The hands lifted him upright. Marcus blinked through swimming tears. His breath whistled through his nostrils.

A toneless voice said, “Here’s the thing. I could just tell you to drop the case, and right now you’d agree to just about anything. Look at me, Mr. Glenwood.”

The man’s voice was as gray as everything else about him. Marcus blinked hard. The image came and went. His whole body quaked with pain and the effort to find air.

“But I don’t want you to agree now and forget. Because if you do, I’ll have to come back. And if I come back, I’ll kill you. Nod if you understand me.”

Marcus nodded. The man’s voice was as empty as a waiting grave. Marcus nodded again.

“Good. Even so, I need to make sure you don’t forget me and this warning, Mr. Glenwood. It’s the last warning you’re going to get.” He took a step back. “Hold out his arm.”

Marcus’ eyes shot fully open as his left arm was pulled out tight from his body. The images became sharply focused-a rail-thin man with mud-spattered boots gripped his left wrist and hung on tight. Another unseen man with layers of lard over hard muscle held him in a headlock, hugging his body up so close that Marcus could scarcely move, much less put up a struggle. A shorter pudgy man stood with his palm flat on the door, keeping out all hope. Through the pair of masks that were visible, Marcus could see two men grinning hugely. With their features mashed and yellowed, they looked like gargoyles made flesh.

But the little man did not smile. Marcus saw him clearly now as he reached into his jacket and brought out what appeared to be a bulky black pen. A jerk of his wrist, and he flicked it into a slender black rod. With the swift motions of long practice he reached for the other end, gripped it with both hands, and sent it in a swinging arc down upon Marcus’ left forearm.

His scream was absorbed by the padding in his mouth. He heard the bone crack from inside his body. The four arms dropped him, and he fell, taking his weight on the broken bone. The agony was a bright white fire that exploded in his brain. He screamed again.

The gray shadow bent over him. “Don’t forget what I told you, Mr. Glenwood. Make this case go away.”