T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“This has been a wet-spaghetti kind of lawsuit, the crudest kind of case. A wet-spaghetti suit is one where you take whatever you can get your hands on and toss it at the ceiling. Whatever sticks makes up the plaintiff’s case. What doesn’t, well, who loses? Who pays? The answer, I am sorry to say, is a lot of people. In this case, those who are injured are my clients. A fine North Carolina company that has never had any dealings with this Chinese group-”

Marcus was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This is in direct opposition to the defense’s prior judicial admission.”

“Sustained.”

But the silver pen was already out and weaving its spell before the judge had spoken. “Yes. All right. Let me rephrase that. The judicial admission has shown that there was some commercial relationship. But what we have also shown is that these relations were nothing like what the plaintiff has claimed. You see how a wet-spaghetti lawsuit works? They claim this. We show that it is something else entirely. They say, But wait, if the one is true, then the other is as well. Do you see? Of course you do. Yes, the judicial admission was that New Horizons had some relation to Factory 101. Yes. But we have not seen any evidence whatsoever that ties the North Carolina firm to responsibility for the acts that have brought us all together. Let us be perfectly clear about that, ladies and gentlemen: New Horizons is on trial here for the disappearance of Gloria Hall in China. And for that there is no evidence. None.”

He used both arms to fight the air, since Marcus was too far away to be grappled with personally. “Wrap this up in the personal tragedy of the plaintiff’s lawyer, who is desperately trying to jump-start his own life, and what do you have? A mess that should never have entered this courtroom. You remember what I said before introducing my own witnesses, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? I said we would go after the truth. And the truth is that the plaintiff’s lawyer has failed on all counts. There are neither credible witnesses nor physical evidence tying New Horizons to any wrongdoing. This is a political matter that belongs in the diplomatic realm. And we have an opportunistic lawyer at the helm of a ship headed toward destruction.”

Logan dropped his arms, patted the sides of the podium, gathered himself for the final blow. “The last point I want to leave you with are the words from our very own United States Attorney General. This incredibly powerful and busy woman came here of her own volition to speak with us, simply because she found this trial so vital to our country’s interests. She said something very important, and I want to draw your attention to this. She said this trial was a mistake from the beginning.” He leaned across the podium, his entire body clenched with the purpose of driving home the point. “I commend this expert intelligence to you. I ask that you consider this very seriously. The Attorney General could not have been any more definite or direct when she told us that this case should never have come to trial.” He nodded his conclusion. “Let’s wrap this up, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Let’s shut this circus down and allow all of us to return to the real world. Thank you for your time and for your patience with this miserable excuse of a trial.”

When Darren stopped for gas on the way home, Marcus walked across the street to the liquor store. He walked straight over to the inexpensive blends and pulled down a bourbon with a name so cheap it mocked the buyer. He ignored the pricier malts that glittered behind the cashier. He had no interest in anything that spoke of celebration or good times ahead. He wanted something foul and burning and acrid. Something that would smite him hard and hurt him the next day. It was the fate he deserved.

Darren and the man pumping gas both watched his return in silence. He said nothing to either of them, just climbed back into the Jeep and sat there waiting. He did not want any argument. He wanted oblivion.

Darren took his time driving home, meandering through the streets as though seeing them for the first time. Eventually they arrived, however, and pulled in past the SBI car and halted in the drive. Only then did Marcus wish for something to say, some words of thanks for all Darren had done, even an acknowledgment of the comfort Marcus had found in the young man’s hulking presence. But there were no words worthy of the man.

Marcus left the brown paper bag on the front hall table as he climbed the stairs and changed his clothes. But when he came back down, it was to the sound of another car pulling into his driveway. He walked out onto the veranda, not feeling much one way or the other, even when he recognized the blond head behind the wheel.

Kirsten climbed the steps in the breathless manner of one pretending not to hurry. She stopped on the third step when his face was clear in the veranda’s weak light. Whatever it was she saw there on his features, it stilled her smile of greeting before it had formed.

Marcus said, “I can’t even begin to guess how you’ve come to be here.”

“Darren called Deacon.”

“Let’s see. That must have been on my mobile while I was still in the liquor store.”

“Deacon called Alma. Alma started to come herself, but Austin said I should go.” She moved one step closer. “Austin said to tell you that sometimes solitude is just another name for death.”

Marcus was still trying to frame a reply, one that would keep his way open to temporary amnesia, when the phone rang. He walked back inside, picked up the receiver, and felt as much as heard Kirsten’s presence there with him.

Deacon Wilbur’s deep, honeyed voice asked, “You all right over there?”

“No.” He could almost smell the contents of that unopened bottle. “Not yet.”

“The good Lord above tells us He’s gonna look after His own.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Now you just hold up there. Don’t you go looking for fair. Don’t you expect a painless life. Don’t go hunting for an easy road. Just you settle for wisdom.”

The vision of the bag and the first scarring swallow wavered slightly, though Marcus tried hard to hold on. “I’ve failed. Gloria is lost, the case is lost, it’s all over.”

“Sometimes the hardest thing a man can do is accept his own humanness,” Deacon’s tone rumbled soft enough to make the words almost palatable. “Sometimes there ain’t no harder road to walk than the one that turns away from the past. Yes, cutting the cords that tie us to what was and never will be again, then turning toward what is yet to come.”

Marcus found the pastor’s voice rubbing out both the bottle’s image and his own desperate hunger. He wanted to hang up, to turn away from this kind man and his painful words, but he merely sighed his defeat and settled into the chair behind his desk.

Deacon waited a moment, and when Marcus remained quiet, he concluded, “Don’t know what’s harder, saying farewell to the dead-and-gones or hello to what’s coming. Sometimes hope is the worst burden of all. One you’ll never be able to carry alone. You just think on that, now. Think hard. Try to find some way to take that first small step.”

As Marcus hung up the phone, Kirsten walked in and sat in the client’s chair. Marcus was angry that they would care so much as to keep him from oblivion. Bitterness over the distance between him and the bottle turned his mood foul. “Gloria knew the whole time she wasn’t coming back.”

Kirsten nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“She went to China planning to place herself in harm’s way. She went expecting to destroy her parents’ lives.” He planted his good elbow on the tabletop and aimed a shaky finger at her. “And you knew it all along.”