T. Bunn - The Great Divide

When Marcus still remained silent, Judge Nicols decided, “Reluctantly I must agree with the defense. Unless you can establish its authenticity and demonstrate a valid purpose behind its being shown, I must exclude the tape.”

Marcus turned and nodded toward Alma, who instantly rose and left the courtroom. “We have a witness who can do precisely that, Your Honor.”

The judge’s eyebrows lifted. “This is the result of your requested deposition?”

“It is, Your Honor. Her name is Hao Lin.”

“She can authenticate this video?”

“And establish not only who made it, but the purpose as well.”

Logan started in, “Your Honor, I protest-”

“No, Mr. Kendall. I heard you out. Plaintiff has the right to demonstrate validity. I will reserve my final ruling on the tape until after I have heard this testimony. Proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”

“The plaintiff calls Miss Hao Lin to the stand.”

The INS officer who accompanied her forward only magnified the woman’s frailty. Hao Lin was just twenty-eight, but she bore the weary legacy of much hardship. She carried herself like a woman hoary with a wealth of winters. The entire courtroom watched mesmerized as the officer released the woman’s shackles. The bailiff clearly had no experience administering the oath through an interpreter, and had to be instructed by the judge to administer the oath a second time to the interpreter herself, who identified herself as a lecturer in Cantonese and Mandarin at Georgetown University and a licensed United Nations interpreter. Marcus gave silent thanks for the thoroughness of Dee Gautam.

Marcus decided it was best to start with the worst, and hope to at least partially disarm the defense. “Miss Hao, how exactly did you arrive in this country?”

Her response was a singing whisper, more a sigh than a true voice, and carried with it all the calamity of this age. By contrast, the interpreter’s voice sounded almost harsh. “I came by boat.”

“Was this a legal transport?”

“No.”

“So you were a refugee on an illegal vessel.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you board the vessel, Miss Hao?”

“Macao.”

“How much did you pay for the journey?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Did you have these funds?”

“No. I signed a paper promising to work for these people for ten years.”

“So you agreed to ten years of what amounts to bonded servitude in order to come to this country.” He cast swift glances all around. Judge Nicols and the jury were clearly riveted by her words. Logan was scribbling madly. Suzie blistered the air between them with her gaze. “Do you know what work you would be doing here?”

“No. It didn’t matter. Anything would be better than what I left behind.”

Marcus moved slowly until he stood at the far edge of the jury box. Hao Lin wore a neat cotton top, patterned with flowers and dancing figures, that most likely had once belonged to a schoolgirl. Her jeans were bound about her middle with rope, and folded over to fit her tiny waist. She seemed swallowed up by the hard witness chair. “Please tell the jury what exactly you were leaving behind in China, Miss Hao.”

The voice diminished further still, until the interpreter’s translation sounded almost a shout. “For six years I was a political detainee, held in the lao gai prison of Factory 101.”

Judge Nicols hammered long and hard to silence the resulting uproar. Her voice was one notch below a snarl as she lectured the crowded room, “Listen up! This is not a theater. What you have up here is not for your entertainment. This is a court of law. I expect you to show proper decorum, or be expelled. Now, is that clear?” When she was greeted with silence, she nodded to Marcus. “Proceed.”

“You were at Factory 101 in Guangdong Province for six years,” Marcus repeated. “Were you ever given a trial?”

“No, a hearing in front of a Party tribunal. Nothing more. I did not even learn how long my sentence was until I had worked there for seven months.”

“Did you have a right of appeal?”

The question caused a series of back-and-forth discourses between the interpreter and the witness, who clearly had no idea what Marcus meant. Her face showed utter bafflement. Marcus caught sight of Judge Nicols watching the girl with pity. Finally the interpreter answered simply, “No.”

“No trial, no right of appeal. What was your supposed crime?”

“I was arrested while protesting the anniversary of Tiananmen Square.”

Marcus walked over to the other side of the room, distancing himself from what was about to come. He asked, “Did you ever see Gloria Hall at the factory?”

“Yes.” The reply came instantly. Much of the response was drowned out and had to be repeated. “The black American who spoke no Chinese. She worked on my line.”

Marcus took a photograph from his table, which meant he had to view the Halls’ stricken features up close. He showed the photograph to the witness. “Is this the woman?”

The witness looked long, very long, then replied to the photograph, “The same girl, but she did not look like this.”

“How was she different?”

“She was badly beaten.”

A low moan rose from the Halls. Judge Nicols looked over but did not speak. Marcus chose not to turn around, letting the jury stare for him. “Can you tell us about conditions at the factory, Miss Hao?”

“Horrible. We were chained to our machines. I glued the soles onto shoes. This American woman operated a steam press. The presses were the hardest work. We were fed gruel and beaten if we did not meet our daily quota.” The tiny chanting voice was dreadful in its simple clarity. “We slept in a dormitory, a long hall of concrete benches. We worked every day.”

“What did Gloria Hall work on?”

“Clothes. Bright colors. For children, I think.”

“We offer as evidence a New Horizons label.” He handed over the slip of cloth. “Do you recognize this?”

She shuddered as she took it. “I sewed this for three years before I made shoes. The shoes had the same logo.”

Marcus walked back to his bench for the next picture. “Plaintiff offers as evidence a photograph of the man whose name appears upon the incorporation records of the joint venture between Factory 101 and New Horizons Incorporated.”

“Granted.”

Marcus handed the photograph to the witness. “Can you tell me who this is?”

The woman drew back, refusing to take the picture, even to touch it. Her face showed total revulsion. “Zhao Ren-Fan. He owned the factory. He came and walked around and left.”

“Who ran the factory in his absence?”

“His son. A bad man. Very bad. And another man. He was more evil than the son.”

Marcus took the sheaf of photographs prepared by his secretary. “Plaintiff offers as evidence photographs of the New Horizons board and senior officers.”

Logan vaulted to his feet. “Objection! Unsubstantiated, inflammatory, unproven!”

“Overruled. You may cross later. Proceed.”

“Miss Hao, I would like you to examine these very carefully. Tell me if you have seen any of these men before.” Marcus held his breath as she went through the sheaf, for there had been no chance to prepare. Only to hear that white men had been there with the general.

She handed two back. “These only.”

“You saw these two men at the factory?”

The courtroom erupted. She winced as the judge pounded for order. “Yes. Several times.”

Marcus read the names off the back, “We identify these as photographs of James Southerland, chief executive officer, and Frank Clinedale, assistant chairman of the board, of New Horizons.”

Logan had to shout to be heard over the tumult. “Objection!”