The Great Divide (45 page)

Judge Nicols gathered herself and said peevishly, “Do not presume to instruct the court on points of jurisprudence, Mr. Logan.”

“No, Your Honor.” Logan remained utterly smooth, totally unfazed. It was superb strategy. He knew it, so did the judge. Flawless. The only reason he had permitted Suzie Rikkers to flaunt an open warning was because there was no way of derailing this train. “The plaintiff’s lawyer has repeatedly stated that a critical source of his most vital evidence was a man we have never been allowed to question.”

“No surprise there,” Charlie Hayes drawled. “Seeing as how your boys did him in.”

“I object to the tone and the statement, Your Honor.” But Logan was too pleased with himself to be angry.

Judge Nicols switched her ire to the chamber’s other side. “Mr. Hayes, another such outburst and I will have you removed from this court.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Charlie took a long moment adjusting his bifocals. “And I apologize to these people if I was mistaken.”

Logan let that one slide by. “This attorney, Your Honor, Ashley Granger was his name. He apparently sourced any number of critical points for the plaintiff. We know that from the counsel’s own repeated statements. We desperately need to get to the bottom of all this. Since Mr. Glenwood was the only person here who spoke directly
with the deceased, we are more than justified in wanting him to give testimony.”

Marcus could not help glancing over. Suzie Rikkers no longer glared in response. Instead, she stared at him with eyes slitted by a tiny smile that compressed her lips into an almost invisible line. The woman looked to be approaching ecstasy.

“Very well.” Judge Nicols gave Marcus a searching, worried inspection. “Does counsel for the plaintiff wish further time to prepare?”

Charlie Hayes responded as Marcus had instructed, though the old man sounded almost bereaved. “No thank you, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Kendall, this is a highly unorthodox move, one that will be held to the light of national publicity.” She was trying to keep the concern from her voice, but not succeeding. “I expect you to conduct yourself in the most professional manner.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” Logan almost purred the words.

As Marcus rose and started for the door, Suzie Rikkers mouthed one word: Tomorrow.

T
HOUGH THE DUSK was chill enough to bite his lungs, Marcus kept his window open for the entire journey home. He breathed the night in deep, trying to rid his lungs of courtroom dust. His left arm in its cast felt heavy and lumpish. His heart thudded slow and irregular. He was not mortally wounded yet, but the lesions were multiplying and their effect was telling.

Because of his position in the passenger seat, he heard the roar and recognized the coming angle of attack. Which gave him enough time to grip the edge of the car roof with his one good hand and shout, “Here they come!”

The roar turned into a night-driven behemoth that slammed into their right rear fender so hard the Jeep’s tail end slewed clear off the road and started toward the highway’s median ditch. But Marcus’ shout had been enough warning for Darren to grip the wheel with shoulders tight, arms strong and ready. He worked the wheel and floored the motor so that it screamed and pushed them back onto the highway.

Marcus felt more than heard a rending of metal as they parted ways with their attacker. He risked a glance behind him, saw a heavy automobile with tinted windows, a Cadillac or Town Car or Marquis, then heard the motor whining and said, “Hang on!”

The hammer blow was less jarring this time, as Darren timed his swerve just right. The attacker caught the Jeep’s tail and ripped the bumper free so that its bolts popped with the sound of gunfire and the silver rod went clanging off into the dark behind them. The car veered away to miss the falling debris, and Marcus heard the more powerful engine race up alongside. “Faster!”

“Can’t!” Darren was hunched up over the wheel, as though squeezing it might press a trace of additional speed from the Jeep.

Marcus risked another glance, saw that the car’s long nose was almost in line with their rear door. “Hit the brakes!”

Darren responded so fast he might have thought of the same thing at the very same moment. His leg muscles knotted like tree trunks as he used both feet to ram the brake into the floorboard. The Jeep screamed and shuddered violently, but remained upright. The enemy’s car raced by and was enveloped in its own cloud of burning rubber.

The attackers sliced across the highway, moving sideways, blocking the way ahead. Marcus shouted, but Darren was already slapping the gearshift into reverse.

Marcus watched the car’s window roll down. A long rod protruded and glinted dully in the headlights. He caught sight of a face behind the barrel, gray and cold as death.

Before he could cry a warning, another car raced up alongside and past them, a blur moving so fast all he saw was a sweep of roaring metal. It slammed into the attacker’s side, shattering glass and knocking the car up on its two opposite wheels. The newcomer reversed almost to where Marcus and Darren sat in the halted Jeep. The engine roared a second time and squealed into attack mode. But the first car signaled retreat with a roar of its own, and burned rubber far down the highway.

The newcomer backed up close to Marcus’ side, a nondescript Chevy of seventies vintage. A sharp and hungry face protruded from the window and called over, “You all right?”

“Fine.” Marcus looked into the face, and seemed to find his answer before even framing the question. “Who are you?”

“Friend of Dee Gautam’s! Follow us! Drive!” The window rolled back up, and the car sped away.

Darren rammed the pedal to the floor, drawing so close he almost grazed the Chevy’s taillights.

When they pulled into Marcus’ street, however, the car ahead did not slow, but rather did a swift U-turn and roared away. Marcus looked ahead and understood immediately. His house was ringed by flashing lights—fire and police and sheriff and an ambulance. Police officers held back what seemed to be dozens of people armed with television lights and flashing cameras. A second group formed another
perimeter out in the road, one that parted and let them through. Marcus pushed open his door and rose so he stood balanced on the car’s running board and breathed easy once more. His house was still standing.

He walked toward two uniformed figures squared off and bawling in each other’s faces. One was Amos Culpepper, the other he recognized from his nighttime visit to the police station. Only then did he realize that Darren was no longer beside him.

The cop was taller than Amos by a good six inches and outweighed him by the tub of lard he had strapped to his middle. In the glare of police spotlights he looked pasty and pig-eyed, a degenerate sow carrying a full litter. Amos was drawn up close to his face, and not hiding a bit of his disgust. “You call this doing your duty?”

“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.”

W
HEN 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.”