T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“Objection!”

“Overruled.”

Marcus retreated a single step. “As you yourself said, Mrs. Paltroe, the drug war is an international issue, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And yet when we have people selling heroin on our streets, we do not let them go, do we?”

“No.” It was her turn to lean forward. “Not if they are selling on our streets.”

“We do not turn them over to Congress or the State Department for a diplomatic resolution, do we? If a crime is committed under federal law, even one where international issues are at stake, we try the criminal in our courts. Is that not true?”

She flushed angrily. “Juries are not responsible for setting international policy!”

“No, but they are here to determine guilt.” Marcus brought the fight straight into that seamed and powerful face. “Courts of law are intended to hold people accountable, are they not? This jury cannot right all the wrongs in this world. But it can decide guilt in relation to a specific issue. Is that not true?”

The hostility left a bitter residue. “Not in a case this weak.”

“I would say that is for the court to decide.” He walked back to his table, drained of all fight, all will. It was all he could do to say simply, “No further questions.”

Judge Nicols turned to the attorney general and said mildly, “With respect, this court happens to disagree with your assessment of jurisdiction. The defense’s motion for dismissal is denied.” She banged her gavel. “Court is adjourned until nine tomorrow morning.”

After the judge departed, Marcus let the seat take his immense encumbrance, and said to Alma and Austin, “We need to talk.”

Alma reached for his hand. “You look exhausted.”

Charlie shifted his chair closer to the gathering. “Don’t you worry about our boy. Any lawyer worth his salt has learned that sleeping easy is something he’ll do only after his last case is tried and won.” He said to Marcus, “Boomer is dead-worried about you driving around in that Jeep.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s nothing of the sort. Darren showed me. It’s got no bumper and the passenger side looks like it’s been chewed on by a pit bull with steel teeth.”

“It will do for now.” He kept his gaze centered upon Alma and Austin. Spoke to the woman, for her gaze was easiest to meet. “My guess is tomorrow the defense is going to rest.”

Alma sought reassurance in his features. When she found none, tension raised her voice a notch. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Marcus was in no mood for lies. Or, for that matter, too much truth. “With your permission I am going to decline my right of rebuttal. I have no further evidence that will strengthen our case.”

Charlie agreed. “Repeating things is dangerous at this stage. It can weaken the power the jury felt when the evidence was first brought forward. And afterward the defense will have another chance to counterattack. We won’t catch them with their pants down twice. No sir, not this crowd.”

“I don’t understand,” Alma said, more concerned over Marcus’ tone than over his words. “We’ve won, haven’t we? You beat them.”

Marcus replied softly, “Alma, their defense is very strong.” Punctuating each word with a slight pause.

She turned her plea toward Charlie. “It can’t be over. We’ve got to do more. There must be something-”

“Alma.” The one word was enough to turn them all around. Austin Hall sat on the edge of his seat, a hard tight knob of a man. “That’s enough.”

“But he just said-”

“I heard the man same as you. I’ve been sitting and listening and thinking for days. If you try you’ll hear the only answer that matters, same as me.”

The chamber was silent save for the dull sigh of the courtroom’s ventilation system. Then, rising in the distance, they heard the faintest clamor. A tide of voices and shouts and loudspeakers and sirens. The courtroom had no windows. Which meant the noise was strong enough to penetrate solid concrete walls.

“Marcus has done all he said he’d do.” Austin set up each word as he would the precise formula of a proven theorem. “He gave us more publicity than we ever imagined. The whole world knows our daughter’s name. All because of this man.”

Austin leaned in close, his voice gentle, but the words rocking his wife nonetheless. “He has done more than we could ask of our closest kin. He’s been beaten, burned, battered. He’s sat up there and let himself be flayed alive. All for us. And now he’s trying to tell us to look and see what we’ve known all along.”

Alma’s head began slowly tracking back and forth. Austin took a deep breath, willed himself to hold to his flat, precise control. “Alma, our Gloria is dead.”

She gasped in the way of one whose final breath has been torn from her body. Marcus rested a hand on her shoulder, but had no strength for anything else. Nor any comfort to add. Not even for himself.

“If they had her, she’d be free.” Austin turned toward Marcus, revealing the struggle to hold himself together. “You do the best you can, Marcus.”

“I will.”

A single sob escaped from Alma’s throat, one wrenching sound cut off as sharp as a broken crystal heart. Austin continued, “You do the best you can. Not for me. Not for Alma. We can’t ask a thing more of you. Do it for my Gloria.”

He searched about him, as though wanting to be certain his legs were still there and ready to carry him. “Come, Alma. We must go show the world our woes.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Hold my hand here. Be strong.” He lifted his wife with his will. “Gloria is watching.”

Marcus watched the news as he breakfasted, taking vague consolation on that wet, gray day from how well Kirsten handled the press. She had been filmed on the courthouse steps the day before, with the modern faceless building and lowering clouds for a backdrop. Her hair blew like scattered winter wheat as she fielded question after question, only once losing her calm, when a reporter asked her if Marcus Glenwood was using her as a shield to hide his drinking problem. Her response was quiet, but only because emotion had choked her throat tight. “Marcus Glenwood is the finest man I have ever met,” she fired back. “A man who cares so deeply he will sacrifice all he has left to help the Hall family. I wonder who would say the same about you.” When the picture switched to the next story, Marcus turned the television off and stood staring out at the dripping rain, reflecting that such moments as this should be savored in silence.

The SBI car was there and ready when he and Darren emerged. Marcus waved, but any response was lost to the rain. The drive into town was as silent as ever, a time for watching the highway unfold, slick as a gray-black river. Marcus entered the courthouse at a run, keeping silent as dozens of questions were shouted from beneath a forest of umbrellas. He entered the foyer, brushed rain off his jacket, returned the guards’ greetings, then stepped into the elevator alone. Only when the doors closed did he gape like a landed fish, gasping hard and long, releasing his fear.

Within the windowless courtroom, wind and rain and normal light vanished, to be replaced by whatever the judge dictated. Even time was held within her sway.

As expected, after Judge Nicols had given her greeting to the jury, Logan Kendall rose and announced, “Your Honor, the defense rests.”

Marcus rose in tandem and said, “The plaintiff waives their right to rebuttal, Your Honor.”

Logan’s voice betrayed his triumph. “Then we declare our readiness to proceed immediately into closing arguments.”