The Great Divide (51 page)

“I’d like to have a word with your daughter.”

“She doesn’t want to speak with you. Not ever again.”

“Nonetheless, I would like to see her.” Marcus planted himself, his stance saying what his words would not. “Please, Mrs. Rice. This is important.”

“There is nothing you could ever say to any of us that would hold any interest whatsoever.” She did not scream. Did not shout. Her breeding permitted no such outburst. But the words cut like daggers. “I await the day your name will be erased from the earth. My greatest regret is that you were ever born at all.”

He did not move. “Please, Mrs. Rice.”

A voice from the study called out, “It’s all right, Mother.”

“It’s not all right. Nothing about this man is right, and nothing ever will be.”

“Let him come in. He’ll leave faster if we don’t fight him.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said, taking it as the only invitation he would ever receive. He entered the long side room, with its handmade windows taken from a Kentish palace. He crossed three antique Persian carpets and passed beneath two chandeliers, his way flanked by bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes. He approached the figure seated by a fireplace burning logs thicker than his waist. “Hello, Carol.”

“What do you want?”

Marcus halted before his ex-wife. She sat with the regal bearing of a queen. Her chair was drawn up close to the fire, high-backed as a throne. The surgeons had done a wonderful job on her face. With her
professional hand at makeup, only a single tiny scar was visible just below her left temple. She held her head precisely as he remembered, the chestnut hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to draw her eyes into a habitual squint, her chin tilted and ready for war.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“I asked you why you were here.”

“I’ve come to apologize.” He did not bother to take a seat. Supplicants did not seek chairs or comfort. “You were right about many things. A lot of our arguments happened because I was being too much of a lawyer in our own home, and not enough of a father and husband. You were right about the weekend. I should never have drunk so much the night before. You were right about the accident. If I had been better—”

“You come up here and tell me this and think I won’t tell the newspeople what a snake you really are,” she fired back. “I know you. There’s got to be some ulterior motive to make you grovel like this.”

“No. Not this time.”

“You’ve wasted your time coming here.” Her words were etched sharp into the ice of her eyes and face and voice. “Anybody who asks me is going to hear it all.”

“That’s your privilege.” Marcus found gentle relief in the truth that he really did not care. “I didn’t come to ask for anything. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. For everything.”

Something flickered deep within her gaze, an instant of indecision. The chin lifted, but there was a slight quiver now threatening her poise. “You never could tell the truth. You never gave anybody anything without exacting your pound of flesh.”

“You’re probably right.” Life had always seemed to cost him more than it gave. He had previously sensed a rightness in using any advantage to win a little back. But not anymore. There was nothing to gain, nothing he sought except an acknowledgment of what truth the moment held. “I used my selfishness to keep from seeing just how hollow I always was.”

The quivering rose to touch the words as well. “You’re nothing in my life and never will be.”

Marcus nodded acceptance of yet another judgment against him. “I don’t deserve anything else.”

Carol pressed a fist against her face, clenching back the tremors. Only two hoarse words emerged to command, “Get out.”

“I’m sorry, Carol. For all I was, and even more for everything I wasn’t.” He trod the silent carpeted distance.

He reached the doorway when the voice behind him cried, “Marcus!”

He turned back, saw the hand half-raised toward him, saw the tension that marked her face and gaze. He waited, longing for all he had lost, and watched as the hand slowly retreated, and the face lowered to shelter in tearstained palms. Marcus left the house, wishing there were some way to thank her for trying at all.

O
N THE TRIP HOME
, Marcus watched the flight attendant push the drinks trolley past his row. The tiny bottles clinked their invitation, the light reflecting off the clear and amber liquids as it would the elixir of life. But the momentary feeling of having done the right thing quenched whatever thirst he might have felt. The feeling stayed with him through the night and into the next dawn, which arrived without either sweats or tremors.

Deacon Wilbur was waiting outside to greet him and Darren upon their arrival at church. The press gathered beyond the barriers to watch and film and be held at bay. Deacon asked, “You give thought to what I said?”

“Yes.” Marcus spotted Kirsten rising from the car with Alma and Austin, and noted the tension. A note of sorrow pealed with the church bell. He realized that Deacon was waiting for more of a response and added, “I flew up and apologized to my wife.”

Deacon Wilbur rewarded him with a single somber nod. “I’d call that a mighty fine first step.”

Marcus excused himself and walked over to the trio. Up close the strain was more evident. He greeted them with, “You’ve discussed it.”

Sunlight rested upon Kirsten’s head like laurels from another realm. “You were right. It had to be said.”

Alma was stiff with sorrow and kept a new distance between herself and the younger woman. Voice tight, she said merely, “We’d figured it was something like this.”

The look that Austin gave Alma held the hoary gaze of shared remorse. “Been thinking it for some time now.”

Kirsten quietly announced, “I’m leaving this afternoon. I’ve caused everybody here enough pain.”

Marcus could not protest, except to say, “You’ve caused me nothing
of the sort.” But the words were not enough to dispel her sorrow. Nor to prevent her from entering the church alone.

Even so, the service held to its customary gift of space and peace. Marcus sat encircled by noise and friendship. He watched as a trio of youngsters gathered before the choir to add their dancing and high-pitched voices to a modern gospel song. Two of them wore New Horizons shoes; Marcus recognized the glittering rainbow arcs and the metallic glint to the laces.

It was then, as he sat experiencing a bizarre sense of comfort within his own blank world, that the idea formed and took shape. As if it had been waiting for him to reach out and open an unseen door. Marcus rose to his feet, gaping at the youngsters and their dance. He was right. He knew it with utter certainty.

Following the service he reentered the sunlight, marched over to Kirsten, and said, “I need you to come with me back to the house.”

She protested weakly. “I’m not sure—”

“I don’t have time to argue. I’ve got to get back and try to raise Charlie. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

She studied his face. “Something’s happened.”

“Not yet.” He thought of something else that needed to be done and added it to his mental list. “But if we’re …”

He stopped as Alma approached and demanded, “What is it?”

Marcus could not help responding, “I think I’ve had an idea. A good one.”

Austin’s reply almost overlapped his, it was that fast in coming. “We want to help.”

He thought of all that needed doing, and could only say, “My place. Fifteen minutes.”

T
HE SIGHT of six mortally weary people filing in the next day, all burdened with boxes and books and poster-sized packages, was enough to raise comment from every person in the courtroom, including the defense. Darren dropped his two boxes and retreated with the speed of one fleeing a burning house. Marcus finished stacking his load of books upon the plaintiff’s table before glancing toward the defense. There alongside an outraged Logan sat the ever-silent general, his gaze glittering with unspoken wrath. James Southerland, New Horizons’ CEO, observed him with the amused contempt no doubt reserved for opponents he was in the process of decimating.

Even Judge Nicols was caught off guard by the sight of the plaintiff’s table almost lost under a burden of papers and books. Her gaze lingered longest upon Charlie Hayes, whose face was gray with fatigue. Yet all she said was, “Mr. Glenwood, I believe it is time for your final remarks.”

Marcus rose to his feet and announced, “Your Honor, the plaintiff wishes to make an exceptional request for the reopening of evidence.”

“Exceptional!” Logan almost shouted the word. “Your Honor,
outrageous
is a better description!”

“Specifically, Your Honor,” Marcus continued, “we would like to reexamine a brief thirty-second portion of the video.”

“Your Honor, this man is insane!” Logan bounced off the table in his impatience to close the distance between himself and Judge Nicols. “He should be barred from ever entering a courtroom again. Not only do we object, we ask that he and this ludicrous case be
thrown out of court! We request the court sanction him, and that you join with us in requesting the state bar revoke his license to practice law!”

Marcus waited until the only sound was Logan’s rasping breath, then continued, “There are numerous occasions in the past, Your Honor, where this has been granted.” He swept one weary arm over his table. “We have gathered a body of cases to substantiate our claim. I have also prepared a summary sheet of the relevant rulings.”

“Let me have it, please.”

“Your Honor—”

“One moment, Mr. Kendall.” She scanned the three-page summary, set it down, said, “I am familiar with most of these cases. Re-examination has been permitted only where
pivotal
evidence was overlooked.”

“Which has happened in this case, Your Honor,” Marcus responded.

“Your Honor,” Logan was so outraged it took him a moment to gather his thoughts, “we have still not seen any definite proof to connect the video either to the factory or New Horizons! You can’t possibly base such an action solely upon the fraudulent testimony of that Chinese girl. She’d say anything and everything to stay in this country. She perjured herself on the stand.” Logan had worked himself to the center of the chamber, and stood squared off and ready to battle for his position in the ring. “Your Honor, clearly they wish to reopen this evidence merely to evoke sympathy from the jury just prior to their deliberations. It is the basest sort of maneuver, and must not be permitted!”

Marcus did not argue. He merely stood by his table and waited for the judge’s gaze to turn his way. “We had the connection before us the entire time and didn’t see it.”

“You can support such a claim,” Judge Nicols demanded, “without introducing new evidence?”

“That is correct, Your Honor. But it would help if we could recall one witness, the chief executive officer of New Horizons Incorporated.”

As Judge Nicols pondered the request, her visage grew steadily sterner. “You may have ten minutes with the witness and one minute of the video. No more.”

Logan gaped, could only manage, “Your Honor, I object.”

“Your objection is noted.”

“We should not even need that much time, Your Honor,” Marcus replied, relief robbing him of all but the strength of a murmur.

Judge Nicols leaned over her desk to declare, “Listen up, Mr. Glenwood. If I find that this reexamination of evidence does not indeed merit this highly exceptional move, first I will strike the testimony. Then before the jury I will sanction you to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.”

“I understand.”

“You just hold on, I’m not finished yet. I will also hold you in contempt and jail you for thirty days. Subsequently, I will add my name to Mr. Logan’s request for a review of your license to practice law. And if he so chooses to resubmit his request to have this case dismissed, I will rule in his favor. I will deem your case to be a frivolous claim. And I will accept his request that you be held liable for
all
the legal costs incurred by New Horizons Incorporated.” She leaned over, face hard as a hawk’s. “Now. Are you absolutely, utterly certain you wish to proceed?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Mr. Logan, be seated.” She waved her black-robed arm in excommunication. “Call your witness, Mr. Glenwood.”

“The plaintiff calls Mr. James Southerland.”

T
HE
N
EW
H
ORIZONS
CEO approached the witness stand with the stiff dignity of someone unaccustomed to doing anything against his will. James Southerland bore the red beefiness of a very wealthy man who loved to play outdoors. If he hunted, it was with Purdey shotguns, beaters, and chilled champagne. If he skied, it was by chopper. James Southerland seated himself and flashed indignant loathing at Marcus.

The judge leaned over and said to the now-seated witness, “You are still under oath, Mr. Southerland. Proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”

Marcus opened one of the boxes and began draping the legal tomes stacked on his desk with brilliantly colored sportswear. “This is what New Horizons refers to as Teen Gear, is it not, Mr. Southerland?”

“Objection, Your Honor, this is new material.”

“On the contrary, it was all submitted and accepted in front of the magistrate.” Marcus did not even bother to turn around, merely pulled out the final sweatshirt with its world-famous shooting star and
rainbow arch, and anchored it into place with a pair of sneakers. He was still smoothing out creases in the sweatshirt when the judge overruled Logan. “Do I need to repeat the question, Mr. Southerland?”

“The answer is yes, everything you have there is New Horizons’ Teen Gear.”

“Fine. And all this gear comes from one source, is that not true?”

“Objection, Your Honor, this is getting us nowhere.”

She wheeled on him then. “My patience has about run dry, Mr. Kendall.”

“But Your Honor—”

“I have done everything but put a noose around Mr. Glenwood’s neck. If he decides to hang himself, you will be the first to know. Now let us get on with this trial!”

Marcus repeated, “The gear comes from where, Mr. Southerland?”