T. Bunn - The Great Divide

The clock showed a few minutes past four when Logan stood and announced, “Your Honor, the defense requests that the jury be dismissed for the day, and that we be granted a moment to lodge a private motion.”

Charlie leaned over and muttered, “Here it comes.”

In chambers, Logan could scarcely bring himself to wait until Judge Nicols had settled behind her desk. “Your Honor, we wish to invoke the Best-Evidence Rule, and call Marcus Glenwood to the stand.”

In a truly bleak moment, Marcus found the judge’s shock mildly gratifying. “Come again?”

“Best evidence, Your Honor. It requires the plaintiff to present the original sources of all critical evidence.”

Judge Nicols gathered herself and said peevishly, “Do not presume to instruct the court on points of jurisprudence, Mr. Logan.”

“No, Your Honor.” Logan remained utterly smooth, totally unfazed. It was superb strategy. He knew it, so did the judge. Flawless. The only reason he had permitted Suzie Rikkers to flaunt an open warning was because there was no way of derailing this train. “The plaintiff’s lawyer has repeatedly stated that a critical source of his most vital evidence was a man we have never been allowed to question.”

“No surprise there,” Charlie Hayes drawled. “Seeing as how your boys did him in.”

“I object to the tone and the statement, Your Honor.” But Logan was too pleased with himself to be angry.

Judge Nicols switched her ire to the chamber’s other side. “Mr. Hayes, another such outburst and I will have you removed from this court.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Charlie took a long moment adjusting his bifocals. “And I apologize to these people if I was mistaken.”

Logan let that one slide by. “This attorney, Your Honor, Ashley Granger was his name. He apparently sourced any number of critical points for the plaintiff. We know that from the counsel’s own repeated statements. We desperately need to get to the bottom of all this. Since Mr. Glenwood was the only person here who spoke directly with the deceased, we are more than justified in wanting him to give testimony.”

Marcus could not help glancing over. Suzie Rikkers no longer glared in response. Instead, she stared at him with eyes slitted by a tiny smile that compressed her lips into an almost invisible line. The woman looked to be approaching ecstasy.

“Very well.” Judge Nicols gave Marcus a searching, worried inspection. “Does counsel for the plaintiff wish further time to prepare?”

Charlie Hayes responded as Marcus had instructed, though the old man sounded almost bereaved. “No thank you, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Kendall, this is a highly unorthodox move, one that will be held to the light of national publicity.” She was trying to keep the concern from her voice, but not succeeding. “I expect you to conduct yourself in the most professional manner.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” Logan almost purred the words.

As Marcus rose and started for the door, Suzie Rikkers mouthed one word: Tomorrow.

Though the dusk was chill enough to bite his lungs, Marcus kept his window open for the entire journey home. He breathed the night in deep, trying to rid his lungs of courtroom dust. His left arm in its cast felt heavy and lumpish. His heart thudded slow and irregular. He was not mortally wounded yet, but the lesions were multiplying and their effect was telling.

Because of his position in the passenger seat, he heard the roar and recognized the coming angle of attack. Which gave him enough time to grip the edge of the car roof with his one good hand and shout, “Here they come!”

The roar turned into a night-driven behemoth that slammed into their right rear fender so hard the Jeep’s tail end slewed clear off the road and started toward the highway’s median ditch. But Marcus’ shout had been enough warning for Darren to grip the wheel with shoulders tight, arms strong and ready. He worked the wheel and floored the motor so that it screamed and pushed them back onto the highway.

Marcus felt more than heard a rending of metal as they parted ways with their attacker. He risked a glance behind him, saw a heavy automobile with tinted windows, a Cadillac or Town Car or Marquis, then heard the motor whining and said, “Hang on!”

The hammer blow was less jarring this time, as Darren timed his swerve just right. The attacker caught the Jeep’s tail and ripped the bumper free so that its bolts popped with the sound of gunfire and the silver rod went clanging off into the dark behind them. The car veered away to miss the falling debris, and Marcus heard the more powerful engine race up alongside. “Faster!”

“Can’t!” Darren was hunched up over the wheel, as though squeezing it might press a trace of additional speed from the Jeep.

Marcus risked another glance, saw that the car’s long nose was almost in line with their rear door. “Hit the brakes!”

Darren responded so fast he might have thought of the same thing at the very same moment. His leg muscles knotted like tree trunks as he used both feet to ram the brake into the floorboard. The Jeep screamed and shuddered violently, but remained upright. The enemy’s car raced by and was enveloped in its own cloud of burning rubber.

The attackers sliced across the highway, moving sideways, blocking the way ahead. Marcus shouted, but Darren was already slapping the gearshift into reverse.

Marcus watched the car’s window roll down. A long rod protruded and glinted dully in the headlights. He caught sight of a face behind the barrel, gray and cold as death.

Before he could cry a warning, another car raced up alongside and past them, a blur moving so fast all he saw was a sweep of roaring metal. It slammed into the attacker’s side, shattering glass and knocking the car up on its two opposite wheels. The newcomer reversed almost to where Marcus and Darren sat in the halted Jeep. The engine roared a second time and squealed into attack mode. But the first car signaled retreat with a roar of its own, and burned rubber far down the highway.

The newcomer backed up close to Marcus’ side, a nondescript Chevy of seventies vintage. A sharp and hungry face protruded from the window and called over, “You all right?”

“Fine.” Marcus looked into the face, and seemed to find his answer before even framing the question. “Who are you?”

“Friend of Dee Gautam’s! Follow us! Drive!” The window rolled back up, and the car sped away.

Darren rammed the pedal to the floor, drawing so close he almost grazed the Chevy’s taillights.

When they pulled into Marcus’ street, however, the car ahead did not slow, but rather did a swift U-turn and roared away. Marcus looked ahead and understood immediately. His house was ringed by flashing lights-fire and police and sheriff and an ambulance. Police officers held back what seemed to be dozens of people armed with television lights and flashing cameras. A second group formed another perimeter out in the road, one that parted and let them through. Marcus pushed open his door and rose so he stood balanced on the car’s running board and breathed easy once more. His house was still standing.

He walked toward two uniformed figures squared off and bawling in each other’s faces. One was Amos Culpepper, the other he recognized from his nighttime visit to the police station. Only then did he realize that Darren was no longer beside him.

The cop was taller than Amos by a good six inches and outweighed him by the tub of lard he had strapped to his middle. In the glare of police spotlights he looked pasty and pig-eyed, a degenerate sow carrying a full litter. Amos was drawn up close to his face, and not hiding a bit of his disgust. “You call this doing your duty?”