T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“We know all about this, Amos.”

“I’m not talking about knowing. I’m talking about stopping. You know who’s behind this same as me!”

“I’m the one who’s walking these streets, not you. You boys spend all day driving around the country, dreaming your big schemes, popping by after we’ve done cleaned up the mess!” The cop’s lips were flecked with spittle. “I’m telling you this lawyer pal of yours has got the whole town against him!”

Amos swept an angry arm out and around, missing the cop’s chin by an inch. “Take a look around, buster. I heard the dispatcher same as you! You got sixteen distress calls warning you about what was coming down here! Don’t look like no hate-filled population to me!” He took a single step forward. “And if my boys aren’t showing up till after the mess is over, how come I beat you and the firemen here by a good five minutes!”

“Cause you’re hovering ’round this place like a deranged vulture!”

“Good thing for us both, ain’t it, seeing as how you’d have been here in time to watch the embers cool! Seems to me it’s about time you started doing your job and stopped leaving it to me!”

The cop did some arm waving of his own. “What, you want me to go out and arrest the whole city council? Glenwood has riled up the people who hold power in this town, Amos. You know that as well as I do.”

“I know you’ve got one concerned citizen who’s finally willing to stand up to those madmen over there on the hill!”

“Those madmen are putting food on the tables of half this town!”

“Don’t give them the right to break the law, now, does it? Only reason we’re in this mess is ’cause you and your kind spent too many years licking their boots!”

The cop made a quick jerk forward, but Amos merely narrowed his eyes, ready for anything. The cop backed down, and hated it. “You’re out of your jurisdiction, Amos. Best you make tracks.”

“I’m leaving when I know somebody’s gonna protect this citizen against the enemies of the law floating about here like bugs ’round a light.”

“Then you’re gonna be here till they finish digging the grave you’ve just started on.” The cop turned and shouldered past Marcus, not even seeing him in his rage. “Come on boys, we’re all done here.”

“That’s right, tuck your tails and run!” Amos shouted after him. “Head straight home, strip off those uniforms you’re shaming, and burn ’em in your backyard!”

The three cop cars wheeled through the crowd as though the people were not even there. Amos stood breathing hard and watching the path they had furrowed, then said to Marcus, “We’ll get us some backup in here tonight. This thing is way outta hand.”

“We were attacked on the highway home tonight,” Marcus said, wanting it over and done with. Swiftly he sketched out what had happened.

Amos’ vision cleared in the process, and he looked at Marcus with the power to see who was speaking. “You go on over and see to your house. I’ll get the rest from Darren.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Nobody was inside, far as I know.” Amos walked away.

Deacon Wilbur moved up as soon as Marcus was alone. “Aaron and Orlando were over there watching. Saw the fellows pull up, watched ’em start the fire, called for help.”

“Where was Netty?”

“She left an hour or so earlier.” The hand on his shoulder was concerned, strong. “You all right, brother?”

“I think so.” Marcus started toward the house, and Deacon fell in beside him. A stain of soot curled around the side of the house. Up close the ground squished wet and soggy under his step. The stench of smoldering ash and the thought of how close he had come to losing the old place left him nauseated.

Deacon’s hand returned to offer comfort. “Never seen the like. Had neighbors from all over out here, running around with buckets and hoses, like a circus without the horses.”

Marcus halted when the side of the house came into view. “Oh no.”

“I tell you, those old trees went off like a bomb. Whoosh. I was just driving up when the taller one caught. They had two choices, save the house or save the trees. I’d say they chose right.”

The sycamore and dogwood that had graced his office window were now charred skeletons. The sycamore’s top branches rose as high as the house and were as naked as old bones. Marcus could have wept at the sight.

“We’ll get in there tomorrow soon as it’s light and start cleaning up. Have the old place right in no time.”

Marcus stared at the trees’ remains, and thought of the coming day. “I don’t know if I can take much more.”

The hand rose and fell one more time. “I know, son. I know.”

When Logan stood up the next morning, it was not to address Marcus, but rather to announce, “Defense calls Ron Nesbitt to the stand.”

Judge Nicols showed a flash of anger at being surprised yet again. Marcus took no pleasure from the reprieve. Logan was merely drawing out the agony of waiting. Suzie Rikkers was no longer looking his way, but rather seemed to ignore the courtroom entirely, deeply involved in her notes.

Logan lost no time in establishing the witness’s credentials. “Mr. Nesbitt, you are head of the Raleigh regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is that correct?”

“It is.” In fact, Ron Nesbitt looked more like an accountant than a federal agent. He was prune-faced and balding, and had the nasal twang of a dedicated pencil pusher. “For the past nine years.”

“Your business is catching criminals, is that not so?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. When you have a case involving assault, such as the plaintiff has accused my clients of here, could you please tell the court where your investigations would begin?”

“With the body.”

“The body.” Logan gave the jury box a slow nod. Pay attention. “You have reviewed the evidence of this trial, have you not?”

“I have.”

“And is there a body here, Mr. Nesbitt?”

“There is not.”

Logan waited a moment, ready for the objection. But none came. Charlie was handling the witness, and for all intents and purposes appeared to be asleep. Marcus was busy staring at his hands, trying to hold down a queasy stomach. He wiped at one temple, rubbed the sweat between his fingers. Back and forth.

Logan continued, “How long have you personally spent studying this case, Mr. Nesbitt?”

A glare was cast at the defense table before he responded, “Two days.”

“Two days. And how many active investigations is your office now handling?”

“Forty-seven.”

“And how many of these have received two full days of your own time?”

“Not many. Five. Maybe six.”

The plaintiff’s silence made Logan bold. “And yet for reasons we all find somewhat confusing, you have been forced to give two full days to this case?”

“It’s a political football. I had to prepare reports.”

“So this case has become bothersome to your bosses in Washington?”

Another glare. “It certainly has.”

“How would you rate the evidence in this trial, Mr. Nesbitt?”

“Scanty. We would not make an arrest on what has been presented.”

Another long glance at the jury. “You would not.”

“No.” He addressed the jury directly. “As a matter of fact, if a subordinate of mine suggested such a tactic, I would feel obliged to submit an official rebuke.”

Charlie sounded bored. “Objection.”

“Overruled. The witness is instructed to restrict himself to answering the question.”

Logan continued smoothly, “What is your experience of parents who report their children missing?”