T. Bunn - The Great Divide

He was halfway up the front stairs when his secretary called through her open window, “You in for a call from Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Some lady, I didn’t catch her name.”

Marcus sidled around where Deacon Wilbur’s ladder was set in the middle of the front hall. He asked Netty, “Are the extra computer and fax lines hooked up yet?”

“Been done since last week. Which I told you. Twice.”

“All right. I want you to get on the Internet and contact one of the corporate search listings. Doesn’t matter which one. Ask for a complete record of everywhere New Horizons operates a facility.” He crossed to his makeshift desk in the back corner of Netty’s office. He picked up his phone, glanced back, and found Deacon Wilbur had climbed halfway down the ladder to look through the open door. “What is it?”

Deacon asked, “This mean you’re gonna help Austin and Alma bring their child home?”

“I don’t know anything yet.” To Netty, “Once you get that listing, I want you to run it by a legal search engine.”

His secretary and the paint-spattered black man shared a glance. Netty said, “Come again?”

“Lexis is good. Use them.” Marcus cradled the phone as he spelled the name. “Have them pull past court records. We’re looking for any cases pending or settled against the various New Horizons facilities. Tell them we’re looking for a basic track record, just want to query past practices.” He waited while Netty and Deacon exchanged another glance. “Well?”

Netty said to the old man, “Sounds to me like real live law is being practiced around here.”

He raised the phone. “Marcus Glenwood.”

A very nervous voice said, “My name is Kirsten Stanstead.”

“The girl mentioned in Gloria’s letter?”

“Yes. We’re housemates. I’m also Gloria’s best friend.”

Strung out was the term that came to mind. As though the voice were a viola string, and the tuning knob had been twisted until the wire hummed of its own accord. “Have you heard from her?”

“Of course not.” The response was not snappish, though Kirsten held to the haughty citified air of one born to money. She sounded like a woman ready to detonate. “Why would we be going to all this trouble if Gloria had contacted us?”

“Right.” Marcus pulled over his swivel chair. “I see.”

“I understand you’re taking the case.”

“I am considering it.”

“Considering.” The voice twisted one notch tighter. “How fortunate for Gloria that her parents found someone so committed.”

Marcus detected a faintly nasal twang beneath the strain. Probably Boston. He wondered what her parents thought of their blue-blooded daughter living with a black woman from Rocky Mount. “First I need to see if there is any case at all, Miss … ”

“Stanstead. I personally feel that the barest of investigations would show that there is an excellent case here.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I was calling to offer my assistance. Gloria left some documents you could use as evidence. That was her intention all along.”

Marcus bent closer to his desk. “Gloria Hall was preparing a case against New Horizons?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Kirsten pushed out an exasperated breath. “It was the topic of her master’s thesis. Alma told me she had already spoken to you about this.”

“I know about the thesis, yes. But not about a case. Or compiled evidence.”

“I was assisting her. I have completed a year of law school.”

“You’re studying at Georgetown also?”

“No.” A moment’s hesitation. “For the past several years I’ve been involved full-time in charity work.”

“Right.” He nodded to the wall. A perfect Brahmin response. When life offered more of a challenge than they liked, the rich hid in charities. She probably organized celebrity jewelry auctions or bridge afternoons. His ex-wife had made a profession of charity wine tastings. “Miss Stanstead, could you tell me what kind of trouble Gloria had been in?”

The tone flashed from tense to furious. “What is it with you guys?”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“You’ve been talking to that other lawyer!”

“It’s common practice for incoming counsel-”

“Oh give me a break! I should have known! You’re all the same, just money-grubbing parasites!”

Marcus held the phone away from his ear, retreating tortoise-like as he had done so often from his wife. “Not at-”

“You listen to me. The only trouble Gloria has been in came from looking after the rights of people who couldn’t look after themselves! Which is more than anyone could ever say about you and your kind!”

The phone slammed down. Marcus sat staring at the receiver. Perhaps this was something mothers taught their daughters in the rarefied atmosphere of the long-term rich. Or maybe it was a genetic thing, this ability to fly into unbridled rage at the drop of a single improper syllable.

He turned around to find Netty and Deacon standing in the doorway. Netty was at the foot of the ladder, Deacon leaning over from halfway up. Both still watching him. “What is it?”

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble,” Netty replied, “for a case you’re not sure you’re taking.”

The preacher did not say anything Marcus could hear. Deacon hummed a single note as he climbed back up and returned to his painting. Dipping his brush, the ladder creaking as he shifted to reach a corner, still holding to that one hummed note.

Logan Kendall’s secretary said through his open door, “Randall Walker just arrived.”

“You set up the coffee, I’ll go bring him back. Have Suzie Rikkers join us.” Logan hustled down the partners’ hallway, then halted by the entrance to the reception foyer to check his reflection. He had once heard his secretary describe him as a middleweight bruiser with a taste for Armani. In truth, the only thing Logan Kendall loved more than fighting was winning. Which was why he was merely a good attorney, but a great trial lawyer. Logan had boxed for six years, choosing his undergraduate school on its strength in the ring. He smoothed his mustache, adjusted his tie and his smile, and entered the lobby with hand outstretched. “Mr. Walker, I can’t tell you what an honor this is.”

“Randall to you, my boy.” The founder of the legal powerhouse of Kedrick and Walker pumped Logan’s hand. In the clannish atmosphere of Carolina law, Randall Walker was something of a legend. Two of Logan’s senior partners were there to watch his stock soar. “And the honor is all mine.”

“I’ve set up our meeting in the partners’ conference room.”

“Fine, fine. Haven’t been here since you fellows moved. How long has it been?”

“Not quite two years.” In fact, they had been the first tenants to sign a long-term lease in the newly completed First Federal Tower, the tallest building in Raleigh. They had rented the top three floors and agreed without a quibble to the exorbitant rent, demanding only two conditions: The firm of Knowles, Barbour and Bradshaw was to be the only law firm granted space in the building, and First Federal was to appoint them outside counsel.

Randall swung easily into step alongside Logan. “This arrangement was Marcus Glenwood’s work, wasn’t it?”

Logan faltered momentarily. Marcus Glenwood remained a name he despised. The only person who loathed Glenwood more was Suzie Rikkers. And for good reason. “A number of us had a hand in putting the deal together.”

“Of course you did. Even so, I’d have to say it was a smart move on Glenwood’s part. Very smart. The First Federal contract he brought in more than pays the rent.”

Logan bit off the snarl before it could fully form. When Randall Walker’s secretary had called to set up this meeting, she had said Randall expected to pay the full hourly rate. For both Suzie and himself. That earned Randall Walker the title of client. And a client was permitted one snide remark. One.