T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Monday morning brought no physical improvement whatsoever. Marcus’ body and mind both seemed stubbornly set against the day. His head pounded, his arm and gut ached, shaving was a chore, even the shower found tender places to probe. His tie defeated him entirely. As he descended the stairs, a burdensome weight remained upon his heart. He knew the reason for his concern, and was helpless in the face of it all. Today marked the beginning of the most hopeless trial of his entire career. He was wounded in body and mind and spirit. He felt lonelier than he had since the funeral eighteen months earlier. And he was sorely afraid of letting everyone down. Again.

As he entered the front hallway, footsteps clumped across the veranda. His entire frame seized up as shadows drifted by the narrow front windows. He saw with vivid clarity the gray attacker, heard the warning so loud it took a moment to realize the doorbell had rung. Marcus forced his muscles to unlock. He was fairly certain that if the gray man returned, he would not pause to ring the front bell.

Deacon Wilbur was positively dwarfed by the young man beside him. “Morning, Marcus. How are you feeling?”

“Fair.” He sketched a smile to the young man. “Hello, Darren.”

“The church elders met last night. We’ve decided to ask Darren here to keep an eye on you.”

The previous fear was still too vivid for Marcus to refuse outright. “It’s a good thought, Reverend. But I can’t afford to hire more staff.”

Deacon Wilbur demonstrated his ability to frown with his entire face. “Who said anything about you paying? Matter of fact, I don’t recall ever seeing a bill for protecting our cemetery.”

“That was nothing.”

“Don’t you say that. Don’t you even think it, not for an instant.”

The conversation was halted by the sight of four vehicles pulling in behind Deacon’s truck-Kirsten in one car, followed by Austin and Alma Hall in another, then a sheriff’s patrol car, and finally a Jeep Grand Cherokee painted Carolina blue.

The first voice he heard was that of Boomer Hayes. “Marcus! If I didn’t see you standing there in your own front door, I’d guess folks were gathering for your funeral!”

“You just hush up and take this.” Libby Hayes was quieter only by degree. “Charlie, get back here and carry this coffee cake.”

Amos Culpepper was the first to the stairs. “Good to see you up and about, Marcus. Hello, Reverend.” He nodded to the young man who towered almost a full head above the deputy. “I know you.”

“This is Darren Wilbur,” Marcus said. “He was rousted last week by the local police.”

The deputy kept a cool eye on the young man, who had turned to sullen stone. “Rousted.”

“Charged with the 7-Eleven robbery. He had witnesses who placed him on the other side of the river. Not to mention that the clerk says abuse was shouted at him and Darren has a stutter, and the clerk made no mention of any. But the officer in charge refused to listen. He needed a warm body. Darren is big enough to scare him.”

The deputy sheriff observed the young man for a long moment, then asked, “Do you vouch for him, Marcus?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll see if we can’t talk some sense into the arresting officer.”

“Marcus!” Boomer Hayes led the crowd up the veranda steps. “I hope you’re hungry, ’cause Libby’s been up since dawn making all kinds of good smells.”

“Cultured Southern ladies are taught at an early age that food is the answer to whatever ails you.” Libby wore a pants and sweater outfit of sharp blue. “Land sakes, Marcus, the side of your head looks all bashed in.”

“You should see his gut,” Charlie said, doing his sideways climb up the stairs. “Morning, Reverend.”

“Hello, Judge. How’re you this fine day?”

“Partial to sleep. Libby made enough racket to wake the dead.”

“Momma always said food tastes better if you bang the pans.” Libby gave Darren a slow up-and-down. “They surely do grow folks big down east.”

“Darren here is offering to keep watch over Marcus,” Deacon said. “There’s a little apartment back of the kitchen, got its own sitting room and all. He’ll be fine.”

The news met with such a chorus of approval that Marcus felt his own objections swept away. Amos said, “I better be off, Marcus. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Not so fast.” Charlie hefted his platter. “We need all the help we can get here.”

“We got us cheese-grits soufflé,” Boomer agreed. “Sausage-and-eggs casserole. Spoon bread. Sweet-potato pie. Coffee cake with pecans from my own tree. And scratch biscuits with smoked country ham.”

“Marcus, stop cluttering up the door,” Charlie ordered. “Go do something useful like putting on a fresh pot of coffee.”

“All rise. The Seventh District Court of the United States is now in session. Judge Nicols presiding.”

Marcus’ multiple pains protested loudly as he stood, yet he did not mind at all. Alongside the throbbing in his head and gut, closer to him still than the arm plastered and aching, was the laughter he had heard that morning in his kitchen. Boomer Hayes had never in his entire life met a stranger, and not even Alma Hall could hold on to her pretrial nerves. Marcus had sat and eaten until his belly felt bruised inside as well as out, and marveled at his home’s momentary change of atmosphere.

“Be seated.” In her dark robes and high-backed leather chair, Gladys Nicols looked impossibly solid and as regal as a queen. Her features appeared even more sharply defined than usual as she inspected Marcus long and hard. “Counsel are requested to approach the bench.”

The courtroom was an elegant walnut-paneled theater. Attendance was free, participation outrageously expensive. For the losers the cost was everything they had, pride and freedom included. Only the United States flag was mounted behind the judge, as the state flag did not belong in a federal court. A carved wooden Great Seal of the United States was set in the wall above the judge’s head. The seal and the flag were the courtroom’s only adornments. The result was a chamber both grand and uncompromisingly stern. The tables, jury box, witness stand, judge’s high bench, and the recorder’s station and public seats were the same polished walnut as the walls. A rich and impressive seat of law, or a very public morgue for the mourning of shattered ambitions-it all depended on who won.

The judge’s bench rested high upon its carpeted platform, ringed by lower stations for the reporter and two clerks and the witness stand. The court reporter started to rise as Marcus and the others approached, but was waved away. Up close, Judge Nicols was so somber as to appear ageless. “Marcus, are you up for this?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”

“I’m willing to grant a continuance if you want.”

“Every day counts here, Your Honor.” Because of his throbbing head, Marcus found it easier to swing his entire body toward Logan. “Have your client release Gloria Hall and we will immediately drop all charges.”

Logan pulled his gaze from the head bruise extending beyond the borders of Marcus’ bandage. “Your Honor, I find the implied accusation offensive in the extreme.”

But Judge Nicols was not done with Marcus. “I had my clerk speak with the hospital staff. They doubt your ability to handle the rigors of trial work so soon.”

Charlie moved in closer. “I’ll be taking care of jury selection, Your Honor.”

Gladys Nicols unbent enough to offer a small smile. “How are you, Mr. Hayes?”

“Raring to go, Your Honor.”

“All right. Marcus, if you need to retire early, say the word.”