T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Marcus rapped his knuckles lightly on the witness stand, but even that sound was enough to cause James Southerland to flinch and draw away. “No further questions.”

“Mr. Southerland!” Logan bounded forward, seeking to redress the damage by volume alone. “Is it not true that there is a great deal of trademark pirating in China?”

The man slumped toward Logan as he would toward a lifeline. “Yes. Yes. Of course there is.”

“Logos and designs are stolen and made by pirate factories all the time.” Logan plucked the photograph from the stand and tossed it into the corner. Marcus noticed that several of the jurors and the judge herself flinched at the action. “Is that not true?”

“Absolutely.” James Southerland smoothed back his hair, saw the state of his trembling hands, hid them in his lap. “All the time.”

“Pirating is a terrible problem in the textile industry.” Logan flicked off the televisions, snapped to the bailiff, “Get this out of here.” Then turned back to Southerland. “Pirating. A terrible problem in your industry.”

“Terrible.” The CEO tried but could not keep his eyes from tracking the televisions’ progress out of the room.

“Of course it is. It is a well-known and highly documented fact.” Logan moved up close enough to block the CEO’s view of anything but him. Shot him a warning gaze. “So it is entirely possible, even likely, that one of your illegal competitors stole that design and has been producing these products without your authorization.”

“Yes. Of course.” Southerland drew himself erect by will alone. “We have strong evidence that this very thing has happened with our shoes.”

“And if it happened with your shoes, it would be the laces as well?”

“Of course it would.”

“So in truth there is no substantiated evidence whatsoever to suggest that this video was shot in your factory?”

“No. None.”

“It could have been any number of places. Done by pirates with morals so low they would be capable of such actions.”

“Yes. But not us.”

“No further questions.”

Judge Nicols watched as James Southerland rose and padded back to the safety of the defense table, a man transformed. She then looked back to Marcus and said quietly, “I believe you have a half hour of closing left.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would you care to leave that for tomorrow?”

“I am ready now.”

She glanced at the clock. It read only a quarter to ten. Marcus shared her amazement. He felt as if he had been standing in that courtroom through several eons. Judge Nicols banged her gavel. “The court is now recessed for thirty minutes. Counsel is hereby informed that I intend to wrap this up and instruct the jury this very afternoon.”

They waited until all had departed before braving the courtroom doors. Darren was there in the foyer, ready to offer whatever support they needed. Marcus led them toward the elevators, and was midway down the hall when he caught the first wind of tumult rising in the stairwell and out beyond the windows. A tide of sound pressed in from all directions, enough to raise a look of alarm even from the stoic Austin.

Kirsten turned to him helplessly. “I can’t. Not today. Please.”

Charlie understood instantly and said, “I’ll go down and feed the man-eaters.”

Alma and Austin held each other with the numb blindness of emotional exhaustion. Marcus stopped the others with one upraised hand. “Wait here.”

He walked to the end of the hall and for the first time passed the point where he had been attacked without cringing. When Jim Bell opened the door to the judge’s chambers, Marcus said, “I can’t take them out there. We need a place to sit this out.”

“Come with me.” Bell walked up to the little group, so weary and drained they could only stand around Darren like a woeful flock seeking shelter beneath a storm-tossed tree. The former patrolman approached and said, “How you folks doing? Looks like winter’s coming right round the bend, yes sir. Early this year.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and jangled them as he walked. “Why don’t you join me right on down the hall here. We got us an empty office and a conference room next door.”

He opened the door, waved them inside, his voice calming even their internal storms. “That’s better now. Darren, why don’t you come with me. We’ll rustle up some donuts and fresh coffee for these folks.”

Marcus offered his hand. “You are a friend.”

“That’s exactly what I aim to be,” the receptionist said, and walked away.

Austin and Alma moved off together into the conference room. Kirsten stood in the doorway, knowing she should not follow, yet uncertain what she should do. Marcus watched the Halls huddle in the far corner for strength, and understood. The morning had stripped away their last vestige of hope. There was no winning here. No triumph, no miracle of reprieve. At this moment the court’s verdict mattered as little as snow falling upon an overwarm earth, a blanketing solution lost before it ever formed. Beyond the windows rose the pandemonium of conquest, a noise that mocked the tragedy within these bare walls.

A deep voice said through the open doorway, “Can I help with anything?”

“Deacon,” Marcus cried, feeling that he could finally release his own burden of fatigue. Let it show in his voice and his shoulders. “How long have you been here?”

“Off and on for most of last week and the one before.” He offered Marcus no smile, no false words of hope. “You did good in there, brother.”

Marcus pointed to the conference room. “They need you.”

“Thought they might.” He nodded to Kirsten, patted her arm, entered the conference room, and shut the door behind him.

The room was so still that Marcus could sense what he did not hear, which was the burden Kirsten now carried. It was the most natural thing in the world to reach for her shoulder and say, “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

She turned to him with a look utterly devoid of either hope or a sense of tomorrow.

He studied the violet eyes. “I am certain,” he said softly, “that you did exactly the right thing. Every single step of the way.”

She balled her fists and held them out to him, clenched around the agony his words had released. He reached up and took hold of those two hands, and said, “Gloria would be so proud of you.”

He pulled her toward him and held her as tightly as his weary arms could manage. She clutched him with hands that could not draw him as near as she liked. Her blond head raked back and forth across his chest, the sobs and the words muffled and torn. All Marcus caught for certain was one word: Gary. It was enough.

“Gloria could not let anyone know about Gary’s death. Perhaps she just sensed this in the beginning. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe early on all she wanted was not to have the world try and fit her sorrow into some little box they found comfortable.” Marcus could not be certain how much of this Kirsten was catching. It hardly mattered, for her tears and her trembling were lessening, as though the sound of his voice was fortifying enough. He said, as much for himself as for her, “The defense would have crushed us immediately if they knew Gloria had done this for any reason tied to love and loss. They would have shouted it from the rooftops, and the case would have been dismissed out of hand.”

She looked at him then. As Marcus held her and gazed at her tearstained face, he felt as if he were able to see her truly for the very first time. He used two fingers to wipe cheeks soft as the clouds of childhood dreams. She did not move, did not protest, did not draw away. One of her hands clenched the back of his jacket even tighter. So he lay an entire hand along the length of her face, and felt the nerves beneath his skin etch her form into a memory deeper than his mind.