T. Bunn - The Great Divide

He clenched the leather backrest of his chair with both fists, and leaned as he would over prize-ring ropes. “We’re going to prepare for the worst. Suzie, get a team together. Assume Marcus is going to hit the jury with past practices. Prepare arguments for the judge.”

“Right. But-”

“No buts.” A quick glance around the room. “From now on, we work on the assumption that our client is not our friend. Clear?” When their assent came, he continued, “Two people start digging through New Horizons’ court records. I want to know every time they have even sneezed within a hundred feet of a courthouse. Volunteers? Fine. You and you.”

All notepads were out now, all pens in use. “Two more start prepping for defense. Okay, you two. Every time Marcus comes up with something, you prepare a counterattack. We meet every day a half hour after court adjourns for strategy sessions. I’ll have sandwiches brought in. Weekends and evening activities are hereby canceled for the duration. Any questions?”

They looked around, the unasked question on everyone’s face. Finally Suzie blurted out, “Do you think New Horizons had Marcus beaten?”

Logan replied with a growl. “Get to work.”

On Wednesday Marcus awoke with enough clarity for his arm to ache more than his head. He greeted the nightmare’s lingering dread not as he would a friend, but at least as a sign that things were returning to normal. By the time he had showered and dressed, he could hear sounds rising from downstairs. Marcus entered the kitchen to find Kirsten and Darren cowed and silent at the table, while Fay Wilbur clattered about the stove and grumbled angrily to herself. She rounded on him the instant he appeared. “Well? What you staring at?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Wilbur. Nice to see you again.”

“This ain’t some good-time show. Get on over there and sit yourself down.” She turned back to the skillet and muttered as she would a curse, “You look like a three-egg man to me.”

“All I normally take is toast and coffee.”

“Hmph. Probably why you got yourself messed up. Didn’t have no strength. Anybody with the sense God gave a little blind mole knows you gotta start your day with a full belly.” She whipped plates in front of Kirsten and Darren. Kirsten gawked at her two eggs and bacon and sausage and three biscuits and grits and ham hock, then directed a horror-stricken appeal at Marcus. Fay Wilbur caught the glance out of the corner of her eye and demanded, “What’re you staring at him for? He can’t tell you a thing worth knowing ’cept you gotta eat it all before you rise up.”

Soon as she turned back to the stove, however, quick as a flash Darren picked up Kirsten’s plate and shoveled a goodly portion onto his own. She responded with a sigh of pure gratitude.

Marcus asked Kirsten, “What brings you over so early?”

“Starvation, most likely,” Fay Wilbur rattled the biscuit tray. “Girl’s all skin and bones and eyes. Even her hair looks peaked.”

Kirsten replied, “Netty called this morning. Her son had a bad night. She asked me to handle the office.”

“Hush up, now, you got all day to do your lawyering.” Fay Wilbur slapped a plate down in front of Marcus. “Right now what I’m hearing is folks not using their forks fast enough.”

After breakfast Marcus waddled his way to the front door. Kirsten wore a mildly astonished look. Only Darren was smiling. As he pushed open the door, Darren spoke for the first time that day. “D-don’t see how Deacon stays so th-thin.”

Marcus asked Kirsten, “Have you found anything more in Gloria’s research materials?”

“Maybe.” The enigmatic wariness returned to her features. “I’m not sure.”

Marcus glanced at his watch. There were questions to be asked, but not now. “I need whatever there is.”

“I brought the rest of her stuff with me.” Their gazes no longer met. “I’ll start on it tonight.”

“Can I help?”

“Gloria wouldn’t want a stranger going through her personal things.” The reply sounded practiced. “I can do it faster by myself.”

Marcus carried his suspicions with him to the car and out of town. Just as they hit the highway, with Darren driving, Marcus’ mobile phone rang. “Glenwood.”

“It’s Ashley Granger here, sport, calling from Washington. How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“That’s not what I hear. Old Dee tells me somebody got you good.”

Marcus stared at the day ahead. “How did Dee Gautam hear about that?”

“Been asking myself the same question. Only found one answer. Because he thinks what you’re chasing is important enough to watch, and watch closely. How does that grab you?”

Marcus replied truthfully, “I’ve got a load of questions and no answers this morning.”

“You and me both.” Ashley sounded impossibly cheerful. “You dropping this case?”

“Not a chance.”

“That’s the spirit. I’m still trying to track down who’s the top dog at your Factory 101. Lots of people are taking offense. I’ve even earned a couple of warnings from Dee himself.”

Marcus hugged his bandaged arm. “You watch yourself.”

“I’m not taking any chances. But I called to tell you I might be closing in on some answers.”

“Anything you can give me now?”

“No, I don’t like dealing in rumors. But I’ll tell you this much. If what I’m thinking proves to be true, you might have more of a case than you think.” Ashley’s voice rang with the excitement of the hunt. “If I were you, I’d start treating this like something maybe I won’t win, but at least I might take down to the wire.”

Marcus cut the connection, and sat surrounded by the traffic and the mysteries.

“Mr. G-Glenwood.”

“Call me Marcus.”

“Somebody’s d-dogging us.”

The words snapped him into focus. “What?”

“T-three cars b-back.” Darren’s hands made fists the size of mallets as he watched the road and rearview mirror both. “W-white pickup.”

Marcus swiveled, searched, felt his gut protest as he sighted the dirty truck. Swiftly he searched his pockets and came up with the deputy’s card. He punched in the number.

“Sheriff’s department.”

“Patch me through to Amos Culpepper, please.”

“Who is this?”

“Marcus Glenwood. Deputy Culpepper told me to do this.”

“Hold one.” There were a number of pops and hissing silences, then, “Go ahead.”

The rich twang said, “Marcus?”

“I’m being followed by one of the pickups that attacked me at New Horizons.”

Through the static of a radio patch, the deputy’s voice tightened. “Where are you?”

“Highway 64, traveling west, about twenty miles outside Raleigh.” He rose in his seat. “Hang on, they’re veering off. They just took the Zebulon exit.”

“Means they’re listening in to police band. Not a good sign. Where are you headed?”

His heart seemed to hammer louder now that the truck had been replaced by an unseen threat. “Federal courthouse.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Anger grated over the airwaves. “Somebody’s about to get me riled.”

By ten o’clock the jury had been fully selected and Judge Nicols was well into her introductory lecture on procedural dos and don’ts. Marcus glanced at Charlie Hayes, saw his slackened features and vacant gaze. Marcus realized that the old man assumed his role was over, and that he missed the courtroom fray like a drowning man would the very air.

Marcus leaned over close and murmured, “I want you to make the opening statement.”

A cattle prod applied to the man’s nether regions would not have provoked a stronger reaction. Even so, the old man’s voice kept to a courtroom whisper. “I don’t have the first idea of what to say.”