The Great Divide (17 page)

Jenny glanced at Bell. In the short time they had worked together, she was coming to consider him a friend. “What was it like, being a highway patrolman?”

“Lonely. Takes a special kind of man to drive down country roads in the middle of the night looking for trouble.” His beard was pierced by a quick little grin. “The crazy kind.”

Jenny turned back to the window. Marcus was inspecting the sky now, and appeared to be having trouble finding breath. “He sure looks ill to me.”

“I’ve seen it before.” Jim Bell’s voice held the quiet matter-of-factness of one who had seen almost everything. “Any random act of kindness is like a bullet to the chest.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it makes him want to feel. And all he’s got inside is more hurt than he can handle.” He turned to her then, placid gray eyes blank as a steel wall. “The judge is right to worry. I’ve had men under my command get hit hard like that. Most spend the rest of their lives looking for the right place to crash and burn.”

She turned from all he kept hidden inside that gaze, and watched Marcus struggle to fit a box under each arm. “I wonder if he’ll make it.”

“I reckon we’ll find out soon enough.” He walked away from the window, clearly having seen enough. “Shame the judge will be the one who has to shoot him down.”

T
HE MAGISTRATE’S CHAMBERS were a smaller version of the judge’s but without the security. A case in federal district court first had to appear before a federal magistrate. This lower-level judge had the power to dismiss the case, rule on all nondispositive measures, even try it under certain provisions. Located on the third floor, these offices were as close as most federal cases ever came to a courtroom. For the few that measured up, the magistrate was then responsible for arranging the preparation of motions and setting the trial date.

Marcus arrived burdened by a bulky gym bag and two square boxes normally used for holding legal files. Suzie Rikkers turned and watched his entry. Logan Kendall did not. He was busy making time with the magistrate, talking about the Carolina Panthers’ recent loss. Though he had the body of a little Napoleon, Logan possessed the profile of a tight end—bony, determined, and fierce. Only a frustrated ballcarrier could put that much enthusiasm into something so nonessential.

“Hello, Marcus.” Magistrate Judge Bill Willoughby was a portly man with the distant, austere bearing of a priest. He offered his hand without rising. “How are you?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Take a seat there, please. Of course you know Ms. Rikkers and Logan here.”

“I read somewhere the Panthers’ former linebacker got himself arrested again.” Logan pointedly ignored the man now seated to his left. “Must still be trying to find himself, or whatever it was that made
him run away in the first place. Crazy, if you ask me. They ought to make him do a little hard time.”

Suzie Rikkers’ suit was of standard legal-issue blue and not well-cut. It gaped about her hyper-thin frame. The flimsy hand-tied bow at Suzie’s neck looked clownish, as if she had knotted it in a desperate attempt to keep her shoulders from slipping through the neck of her blouse. Logan was as dapper as ever. “Hello, Suzie. Logan.”

Suzie said nothing. Logan made do with, “Marcus,” but did not turn from his jovial monologue. “Problem with guys like that, they don’t know how tough it is in the real world. Give him a season as a plumber’s assistant, take away the Rolls and the women, you’d see how hard he’d start pushing for the goal line.”

“Yes, certainly. Now let’s move on.” Judge Willoughby might have the look of a genteel Southern spirit, but he possessed more than thirty years’ experience on the bench. Feuds between lawyers were not unknown, but they were certainly unwelcome. “We had a request from Justice Nicols for her chief clerk to sit in on these proceedings. As they are new to this level of the courts, we thought it was a fair request. But only if both parties agree.”

“No objections, Your Honor,” Marcus responded.

Logan actually smirked. “Fine with us, Your Honor.” Clearly the more witnesses to the upcoming roast, the better.

“All right.” He turned to his court recorder. “See if Miss Hail is ready to join us.”

Jenny Hail entered and gave the room an oblique smile before seating herself to the back and left of Judge Willoughby’s desk. The magistrate went on. “Mr. Kendall, you requested this meeting. As I told you on the phone, such a rapid pretrial hearing is not the norm. Mr. Glenwood, you have every right to request a postponement.”

“Thank you, Your Honor, but I have no objections.”

“Very well.” To Logan, “I assume we are here to discuss the defense’s pretrial motions.”

“We wish to lodge only one, Your Honor.” Logan handed the judge a slender file, paused as Suzie handed a copy to Marcus, then said, “We move that the complaint be dismissed forthwith, and Mr. Glenwood’s license to practice law be revoked.”

The judge’s demeanor turned severe. “Licensing is an issue for the state bar, not a federal hearing. As you well know.”

Logan held his ground. “With respect, Your Honor, we feel this
matter is absurdly frivolous. A recommendation from you would carry substantial weight when we bring this matter up before the bar.” Logan turned toward Marcus for the first time. “Which we intend to do as soon as this case is thrown out.”

“I see.” The judge looked from one attorney to the other, then opened the folder and adjusted his glasses. “All right. I’m listening.”

“A young woman by the name of Gloria Hall has gone missing. Marcus Glenwood has taken advantage of two extremely distraught parents. His intentions are blatantly obvious. He seeks to focus public attention his way by besmirching the good name of one of our state’s most respected corporate citizens.”

The judge read swiftly, flicking the pages. “What are the facts here?”

“That’s the problem, Your Honor. There aren’t any facts to back up the plaintiff’s claim. Glenwood has accused my client of orchestrating a kidnapping. The whole thing is absurd.”

A quick glance at Marcus. “The plaintiff accuses New Horizons Incorporated of being behind an abduction?”

“Not the plaintiff, Your Honor,” Logan responded. “I don’t think Gloria Hall’s parents have anything to do with this claim. This is something Glenwood dreamed up on his own.”

Judge Willoughby glanced at Logan over the top of his reading glasses. “So what precisely
is
the complaint?”

“Glenwood has accused New Horizons Incorporated of kidnapping an American citizen. In China of all places. China, Your Honor. Nine thousand miles from here.”

When the judge’s gaze turned his way, Marcus offered, “Gloria Hall was investigating labor practices at a notorious facility in China known simply as Factory 101. This group operates in conjunction with New Horizons.”

Logan snapped, “That is a ridiculous and unsubstantiated claim!”

“One moment.” Willoughby motioned with his head. “Continue.”

Marcus went on. “Gloria Hall has been researching New Horizons labor abuses for almost two years, in conjunction with a master’s thesis she is writing at Georgetown University. Unfortunately, she drew too close to the truth at this point, and was abducted.”

Logan retorted, “Your Honor, this is an outlandish concoction of bald-faced lies!”

Willoughby flipped a page. “You’re saying New Horizons has no connection to this”—he back-paged, searched—“Factory 101?”

Logan’s response was instantaneous. “None whatsoever, Your Honor. We categorically deny any involvement in the factory, and state that there is no basis whatsoever for bringing a case against us.”

“I see.” He examined the last page, flipped it over to ensure he had missed nothing. “So you are offering nothing further in the way of pretrial motions—depositions, motions on evidence, disclosures?”

“We offer none because none is required. There is no case here. Nothing on which a case can be based.” Another swift glance at Marcus. “We therefore request an immediate decision on our motion to dismiss. And we are charging Glenwood with frivolous miscarriage under Rule Eleven.”

Even though he knew it was coming, the statement jolted Marcus hard. Rule Eleven was one of the bugaboos of every trial lawyer’s world, a statute whereby Marcus could be fined for all New Horizons’ legal fees resulting from the action, plus substantial penalties. A finding against him under Rule Eleven would also be grounds for action by the state bar association. He could lose his license to practice law.

“Very serious allegations,” Judge Willoughby agreed. “All right, Mr. Glenwood. I’m listening.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus rose and fumbled with the top of his first box. “I submit as pretrial evidence the following items.”

Using his own chair and two empty ones by the side wall, Marcus laid out three pairs of shoes and three very bright outfits. “These items belong to the line of sports clothing New Horizons markets under the name Teen Gear.”

“Your Honor,” Logan protested, “this is merely a game of smoke and mirrors—”

“Mr. Glenwood granted you the courtesy of listening in silence,” Judge Willoughby retorted. “I suggest you do the same.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus flipped the top off the second box, came up with two bulky files. He passed one to the judge and the second to Logan. He stood at the side of the judge’s desk and watched his old adversary open the file. And saw Logan’s jaw drop. He turned back to the judge, noted the man had observed Logan’s reaction. “These internal company documents show that New Horizons has placed orders for over two million units of each of these
shoes and outfits, contracting directly with Factory 101 in Guangzhou, China.”

Logan collected himself as best he could. “This is inadmissible evidence, Your Honor. It cannot be considered.”

Judge Willoughby glared across his desk. “It seems to me that you had every opportunity to make motions on evidence earlier.”

“But Your Honor, these are confidential—”

“Be quiet.” To Marcus, “Proceed, Counsel.”

“If you will turn to the next section, you will see that these very same Teen Gear items were the centerpiece of the company’s ad campaigns for the past three years; they are dated there in the top-left-hand corner. You will note that these ads used as models several top sports stars, including this year’s NBA most-valuable-player award winner. In all these pictures, they are promoting the Teen Gear products originating from Factory 101.”

Marcus granted a moment for all this to sink in, then concluded. “This constitutes incontrovertible evidence that there is, and has been for a minimum of three years, a direct connection between New Horizons and the Chinese factory in question.”

Logan’s voice sounded choked. “I demand to know where you got your hands on confidential corporate information.”

Marcus remained silent. He fervently wished to ask Kirsten Stanstead that very same question.

The judge slapped the folder closed, his features a choleric red. “Is it your practice to lie to federal magistrates, Mr. Kendall?”

“Your Honor, please, this is all news to me.”

“Is it.” The judge’s gaze sought to peel back the man’s skin. “Is it, indeed.”

Logan glanced at the file in his lap. “I respectfully request time to prepare a rebuttal.”

“Motion denied,” Willoughby snapped.

“Your Honor …” A single glance was enough to reveal that further entreaties were pointless. “I object to opposing counsel’s possession of confidential company documents.”

“Overruled.”

Marcus unzipped the gym bag and delved inside. He came up with a sheaf of folders, one set for the judge and another for his opposition. “Your Honor, these are my motions for evidence, disclosure, and witnesses respectively.”

“Fine.” Willoughby settled a proprietary hand over the pile, and announced to Logan, “You are hereby granted three days to respond.”

“Three days!” Logan’s shriek half-pulled him from his chair. “Your Honor, that is utterly—”

“You demanded a swift pretrial hearing,” Willoughby said, his gaze as hard as his voice. “You got it. Three days.”

L
OGAN KENDALL stalked the length of the conference room at Kedrick and Walker. Walls on either side of him were floor-to-ceiling glass. The inner glass overlooked the reception area. The outer wall looked out to the Research Triangle Park, which from this viewpoint appeared as virgin green. Logan saw none of it. He paced along the inner glass wall, roaring blindly, seeing none of the fearful glances cast from outside. The reception area was packed. Every eye was upon them. Every single one.

Logan could not have cared less. “How could you have done this?”

“It was a terrible mistake.” Randall Walker occupied the hot seat, the middle station on the table’s opposite side. “I offer my most heartfelt apologies.”

“Like that’s going to change a thing now.” Logan turned and shouted, “What possessed you to instigate such a totally asinine maneuver? And at my expense?”

“It was a mistake.”

“It was more than that, buster! It was an absolute total shambles!”

“Because of me.”

“I’ve got half a mind to bring suit against you for false representation. We’re talking my reputation here!” Logan reached the end of the room and punched the oiled wood paneling. Turned and stalked again. Suzie Rikkers was the only other person in the room. She sat at the far end of the table and tried not to flinch every time he glanced her way, every time he paced in her direction. “I sat there and told the magistrate exactly what you told me. You know what I said?”

“That New Horizons and Factory 101 had no connection whatsoever.” Randall Walker appeared painfully contrite. His coat was off, his collar unbuttoned, his tie down two notches. “A terrible error in judgment. I freely admit it.”

“You instructed me to go in there and grind Glenwood to dust. Fine. No problem.” Logan paced the chamber as he would a boxing ring. It was good Randall remained so remorseful. Otherwise the man would have long since been knocked over the ropes. “Only you give him a gun, load the ammo, aim it for him, and …”