T. Bunn - The Great Divide

He decided there was no need to dispel their good humor with further questions. As Darren slid the Jeep in behind the deputy’s car, Marcus used his mobile to call the Halls. The phone rang so long he feared he had missed them. He was hard put not to smile when Kirsten answered somewhat breathlessly. The morning was so fine in its start he could almost pretend it was excitement over hoping the call was from him. “You did great handling the press.”

“Wait, we were halfway to the car when the phone … ” She took a long breath, then started over in a rush. “The police are here. Two cars. One has been parked here all weekend to keep back the crowd. Another is going to drive us in today. I got another call this morning: ABC wants me to come in for a live debate with someone from the defense team. I don’t want to do it, Marcus.”

“Then don’t.”

“But it might mean some big publicity.”

“As much as we’re getting already,” Marcus replied, “I don’t think one debate will matter much. Don’t do anything you don’t want to. Tell Alma and Austin I said the same applies to them.”

“Yes. All right.” A smaller voice, then, “When can we talk?”

The question was enough to give him the strength to admit one more time, “We’re both carrying more than our share of secrets, Kirsten. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I want,” she said, the words almost musical. “A lot.”

“All right.” He had to stop and swallow. “There’s something I need to ask you, then. The defense’s first witness is a woman named-wait, I have it here.” He opened his briefcase and shuffled the papers. “Stella something.”

“Gladding. Stella Gladding.”

“You know her?”

“We’ve never met, no. But Gloria talked about her.”

“Okay, I need to know why the defense called her.”

Kirsten’s voice returned to the flat monotone of earlier days, but she did not flinch from the task. Marcus took notes through much of the journey, his mind strategizing as she talked. When she fell silent, he asked, “That all?”

“I think so. Is it bad?”

“The truth is, maybe. But as long as we know in advance, we can prepare.”

“Marcus,” she sighed, “when can we talk? I don’t mean like this. I mean, really.”

His heart replied first, with a fleeting image of what he was certain the coming week would hold. “It may need to wait until this is over.” What he did not add was: If you still want to after what you’re about to witness.

They arrived to find the federal courthouse under siege. Police roadblocks held back a packed placard-hoisting mob, the signs so jumbled together Marcus gathered one blurred impression of Tibet and fashion and children and China and trade and missionaries and human rights and several missing activists with Asian names. Amos put on his flashers and the police moved the barricade and waved them through. A dark-windowed limo was pulled up in the fire lane. Then he could see no more, for the press surged forward. Marcus emerged from the Jeep to camera flashes and klieg lights.

Jim Bell was there to usher him inside. The questions were a torrent of verbal rain, striking him from every side. He allowed the retired patrolman to burrow forward, saying nothing, astonished by it all.

Charlie Hayes awaited him just inside the doors. “You hear the news this morning?”

Marcus shook his head, stared out at the mayhem, struggled to accept what he had caused.

“The Chinese government issued a formal statement condemning the United States government for what they call a petty attempt at trade terrorism.” When Marcus did not respond, the older man led him toward the elevator. Jim Bell continued to dog their footsteps. Charlie said, “Looks like you won yourself some publicity, son.”

He waited until the doors shut to reply, “Let’s just hope it works.”

“If this don’t, well … ”

Marcus did not allow the unspoken to hang for long. “We need to talk strategy. I want you to handle this first witness.”

Charlie turned away from the tumult. “Trouble?”

“Probably.”

“All rise.”

Judge Nicols swept in with the majesty of one born to wear royal robes. She seated herself and made a noble pretense of ignoring the packed hall by issuing her customary greeting to the jury. “Good morning. How is everyone?”

The foreman, a retired machinist with the reddened neck and face and arms of a dedicated outdoorsman said, “Good, Your Honor.”

“Any particular reason I should know about?” She let the smile slip away as she turned to where Logan stood by the defense table. “Yes?”

“Your Honor, I have the pleasure of presenting General Zhao Ren-Fan.”

Marcus turned with the rest of the packed hall. The man was stocky and not aging well. His face was pocked, his body chunky and sagging. Not even the finely cut dark suit could hide the general’s hard battle against approaching winter. Zhao turned to meet Marcus’ stare, and his face clenched up slightly around eyes black as Arctic night. No light was emitted from those eyes. No light, no hope, no message at all.

Even so, the dark eyes flickered once, then turned away. When Marcus swiveled back in his seat, he caught sight of the look shared by Alma and Austin Hall as together they glared at their daughter’s nemesis.

The judge did not need to speak to silence the crowd. One sweeping glare sufficed. Nicols turned her attention back to Logan. The defense attorney continued, “The Chinese government wishes to state formally that they have nothing whatsoever to do with either this trial or this gentleman’s presence. He is here of his own volition, at the behest of the China Trade Council. The council vehemently objects to this entire trial, Your Honor, and wishes to go on record that this is an extremely volatile matter, one that should be left to the federal government. We so move on their behalf.”

“Your motion is noted and denied.”

“Very well. In that case, Your Honor, the defense wishes to open its case with my postponed opening statement.”

“Very well.” Judge Nicols turned to the jury and explained, “As you may recall, the defense chose not to give an opening statement. I told you at the time that they might do this later, probably before calling their first witness.” She turned back to Logan. “You may proceed.”

Logan walked to the corner by the judge’s entrance and picked up the portable podium. He carried it to the center point between the plaintiff’s table and the witness stand, about twelve feet from the jury box. He leaned against it, and launched straight in. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what we have here is a case within a case. Things have become infinitely more complicated, and your job is now much more difficult. But what you mustn’t do, under any circumstances, is lose sight of where the burden of proof lies.”

Logan Kendall was a consummate actor. The courtroom was the only stage he would ever see, the only one he desired. Nothing could be done about his boxer’s face or his inborn aggressiveness. But he used them to his advantage, and had polished all to a hard shine. His hair was as perfect as his tan and his suit and his manicure. His tie was a two-hundred-dollar Brioni, his shoes hand-tailored calfskin. In an instant he could switch from hard and feisty to warm and welcoming. When he turned on his considerable Irish charm, a mere few moments in front of the jury was enough for them to want to believe him. They knew it was an act, but as with all fine performances, they really didn’t care.

“This case is now vastly different from what it was in the beginning. And what we said earlier does not apply so clearly anymore. We have new defendants that the court in its wisdom has ordered us to include. But we are in this together, ladies and gentlemen. And together we are going to find out the truth. My job is to lead you through this process. You are judges of the facts. And though this has become far more global an issue, and far more complex, still I am certain that we are all up to the task of finding out just what these facts are. We are on a truth-seeking mission here. And when we are done, we are going to talk again. At that time, I hope we will have some hard facts upon which to base a valid judgment.