T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“I’ll be fine, Your Honor. But thank you.”

He held to his stoic denial only as long as it took to return to the plaintiff’s table. As Judge Nicols greeted the prospective jurors, Marcus palmed a tablet from his jacket pocket. He could do nothing about the palsied shake to his hand, however, and was grateful when Alma took the carafe from him and filled the glass. Charlie watched from Marcus’ other side and commented, “You’re in a bad way.”

Austin was seated to the right of Alma, the closest person to the jury box. “The man should be lying down.”

Marcus set down his glass and touched his forehead. His fingers came away damp. He said to Charlie, “You’re on your own today.”

“Don’t you worry, son. I’ve prepped more juries than you’ve had hot meals.”

The pill settled the pain and the courtroom into a soft, dull drone. Marcus sat and pretended to observe as Charlie went through the jury questionnaires. Nothing registered, save for the fact that little mattered, since the case’s outcome was already decided. It was all for show, and Charlie could handle that just fine.

Mercifully, the judge called it a day before the pill wore off. Marcus listened to her instructions as he would the buzzing of an insect, then rose and found himself mildly surprised to find the four of them joined by Darren and Kirsten. He was glad to discover his legs could carry him to the elevator. There the judge’s receptionist was standing with the building’s security detail, all retired police, all wanting to ask how he was. Marcus let Charlie speak for him, wishing he could curl up right there on the floor.

Tuesday started better and faded more slowly. In the time between awakening and coming downstairs, Marcus took great comfort in the quiet sounds of someone else moving around his house. Darren drove him into Raleigh as though he had been doing it for years, silent and very watchful.

At midmorning, when pain and fatigue threatened, he slipped a pill from his pocket and waited while Charlie poured him a glass of water. The old man murmured, “They’re stacking the jury.”

“I know.”

“They’re turning the jury box the color of fresh mayonnaise.” Both teams were granted eight peremptory strikes. Logan had used six, Charlie one. Judge Nicols had excused four others. The one black person among the five jurors chosen thus far was a dentist, also the only professional among the group. Marcus knew the defense had let this one stand because medical personnel were notorious for loathing big payouts.

“Why didn’t you strike the dentist?”

“Can’t rightly say. Just had a hunch about him is all.” Charlie motioned toward the rows of potential jurors behind them. “Wish I knew what to look for in this bunch.”

Marcus started to say it hardly mattered, since the case was bound to be dismissed long before the jury retired. Charlie went on, “The next five prospects are white. I could strike them all, then-”

“Don’t bother with that.” Marcus pointed vaguely with his water glass. “Nicols will hardly take kindly to the defense using race as a selection tool. Let’s not lower ourselves to their level.”

“Can’t see how that matters if we wind up with a jury that’s firm against us.” Charlie wore a poplin suit and a bright yellow bow tie. This close he smelled slightly of camphor and hair oil. The eyes behind his thick lenses swam with intelligent concern. “Bound to be some whites in that bunch who’d love to give an intelligent black troublemaker her comeuppance.”

Marcus swallowed his pill. “Charlie, listen to me.”

“Not to mention the work the defense team must have put into studying the jurors’ profiles. Look at that bunch, like vultures in drag. Bet they’ve got some whoop-de-do jury consultants prying through those folks’ garbage-”

“Forget them.” Marcus felt his will and focus fading. “Find out which ones are churchgoers.”

Charlie Hayes seemed to have difficulty getting Marcus into the right frame of his bifocals. “Shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as how we’re sitting on the buckle of the Bible Belt,” Charlie replied. “But in case you haven’t noticed, most every church I’ve set foot into has its share of racists. Ain’t saying it’s right. Just saying it’s so.”

Marcus lacked any will to argue. “Just the same.”

“Mr. Hayes,” Judge Nicols interrupted. “Any question for prospective juror seventeen?”

Marcus watched Charlie rise and begin his jocular probing. His poplin suit had been bought for a much younger man, and tended to flap on Charlie’s aging frame. But the jurors apparently did not mind, for they watched Charlie’s creaking dance with a smile. Marcus wholeheartedly agreed. Charlie Hayes pranced and waved and flittered like a poplin butterfly.

“Is the door locked? All right. Everybody pay attention.” Logan surveyed the group crammed into his office-seven lawyers, two paralegals, two in-house jury consultants, three secretaries. As senior associate, Suzie Rikkers claimed the most comfortable visitor’s chair. The others squeezed into whatever space they could find. Five remained standing. All wore sullen expressions and the bored air of people wasting their time.

“I know what you’re thinking. The trial is a sham, the plaintiff has no case, and you’re all there for padding.” Logan noted the nods around the room. Even the most junior associate felt the senselessness of their presence. And he knew what they all expected next-the partner in charge would now give a pep talk: how this was crucial courtroom experience, how they needed to watch and learn, ask questions, anticipate, get ready for their own big day.

“Well, up to now that’s been exactly right. Dan Fussell, our senior partner, actually stopped me yesterday in the hallway and asked if we couldn’t use a couple more associates in there.” He waited long enough to see the surprise filter through the boredom. Here was something new, a partner actually telling them the truth. “Obviously our client has given the senior partner a blank check. Since I refused to take on anyone else, my guess is he’ll bill you all at partners’ hourly rates. I know I would.”

Logan stood and turned to the window behind his desk. The descending sun shone through a horizon-level slit in the clouds, and painted the world ocher and rose and gold. At least here was space and clarity. Logan continued, “Dan has bought the client’s line. He assumes this is a nuisance claim. He accepts that New Horizons has no formal tie to the Chinese factory. The vanished girl has nothing whatsoever to do with New Horizons. And we’re off for a walk in the park.”

He turned back, and this time all eyes were on him. “As far as Dan is concerned, that’s exactly what we’re thinking too. You don’t discuss this with anyone not in this room, not even your own secretary. You need a letter typed, do it yourself. Don’t open your mouth to anyone around here except the people in this room. We can’t afford the risk of this getting back to the client. New Horizons has announced that they are granting us a bigger slice of the corporate pie, and we don’t want anything to disturb this new relationship. Are we clear so far?”

This time the nods were sharp assents. He had their full attention. “All right. I’ve got a strong gut feeling that the company is leading us right off the cliff.”

The room took a single breath. Suzie asked in her patented whine, “You really think they kidnapped that girl?”

“I think it doesn’t matter. I think they’re hiding something. Something big. Whether it’s about Gloria Hall or Factory 101 or something else entirely doesn’t make any difference. What we can’t afford any longer is to simply go where they direct.”