The Great Divide (3 page)

“That’s not true.”

She leaned into the sneer, adding all the force of her over-small frame. “So you became the youngest partner in the firm’s hundred-year history strictly because of your skills as an attorney?”

He knew why Suzie Rikkers despised him, why she had begged for the chance to represent his estranged wife. Marcus had not been the only partner who disliked Suzie. But he was the one formally to suggest she be fired. And the only one to have declared that the woman was emotionally unstable. Borderline insane was how he had put it at the partners’ meeting. Minutes of these meetings were supposed to be strictly confidential. But Suzie Rikkers knew. Oh yes. She knew all right. “That is correct.”

She turned so that her laugh could be shared with the man seated directly behind her table. Logan Kendall had no business being in court today, except to watch Marcus bleed. Logan was the newest partner in Marcus’ former firm. He had been promoted to take the place that Marcus had vacated. It was only the second time Logan had won a battle against Marcus. He was obviously there to even the score.

Suzie Rikkers went on. “Your claim is hardly substantiated by what has happened since your wife left. You have gone from a partnership in the state’s capital to practicing law in the basement of a ramshackle home in a small eastern North Carolina town.” She shared her delight over that with Logan, finishing with genuine pleasure, “You have lost virtually every single one of your clients.”

“I did not ask them to join me.”

“Oh, please.” She spun back around. “Spare us the bald-faced fabrications, all right? Your life is a total shambles. You’ve lost everything. Why? Because your wife isn’t there any longer to prop you up.”

“That’s not true.”

Slowly, Suzie Rikkers approached the stand. The next question was put almost delicately. “Of course, there was nothing left of your Lexus to auction, was there?”

“No.” To his dismay, the blinding tendrils of fatigue began to whither, leaving him acutely aware of the witness box. Trapped in a wood-lined cage, stalked by Suzie Rikkers. “There was not.”

She closed in, and smiled. “Let’s speak about the events that led to your wife’s hospitalization.”

He heard Judge Nicols’ chair creak as she angrily shifted her considerable
bulk. But she could not save him. No one could. Marcus had no choice but to sit and endure and hope it would not take too long.

At the plaintiff’s table directly in front of him, one woman remained seated beside the chair vacated by Suzie Rikkers. His former mother-in-law observed him with cold loathing. Behind her, Logan Kendall watched Marcus’ torment with bitter pleasure.

Suzie Rikkers kept to one side, so as not to block his vision of the pair. “You were down at Figure Eight Island for the weekend. You were there with several new clients. Your wife and children were with you. Is that correct?”

His children. The words left him unable to draw breath.

“Mr. Glenwood, are you with us?”

“Yes.”

“What happened on the way home from that weekend?” No answer.

“You were involved in an accident, were you not?”

He nodded.

“Answer the question, Mr. Glenwood. Were you involved in an accident?”

“Yes.”

“A terrible accident.” Her smile drifted in and out of focus. “Was it your fault?”

“The police said no.”

“I didn’t ask what the police said. I asked you. Was the accident your fault?”

“No.” It was only this hope that made the day possible.

“But you had been drinking, had you not?”

“Not that day.”

“The night before. And all the previous day. You had drunk almost continually that weekend. In fact, drinking was pretty much a constant in your life.” When he did not respond, she asked, “Do you have a problem with alcohol, Mr. Glenwood?”

“No.” Not anymore.

“I suggest that you do.” She moved closer so that Marcus could not help focusing upon her. “I suggest that your chronic problem with alcohol fogged your thinking and resulted in a tragedy that wrecked your wife’s life and destroyed her hopes for the future. The
accident was therefore entirely your fault, Mr. Glenwood. You are the guilty party here. Is that not correct?”

The questions were drawn from the horrors of his dark hours. Marcus struggled but could not find the breath to respond. Which was just as well, since he had no idea what to say.

Suzie Rikkers leaned closer still. “Didn’t you feel horrible when it happened? Couldn’t you have driven better? Couldn’t you have saved their lives?”

The gavel banged with such force that both of them jumped. “All right, that is enough!”

Suzie gathered herself. “Your Honor, I am trying to establish—”

“I know precisely what you are trying to do, Ms. Rikkers. And I will not allow this travesty to continue!” She rose and drew the court with her. “I will see you and Mr. Glenwood in my chambers.”

“But Your Honor—”

“Now, Ms. Rikkers. Right this very instant.”

O
UTSIDE THE JUDGE’S CHAMBERS
, Marcus kept his distance from Suzie Rikkers by standing inside the cramped cloakroom. On one wall a cracked mirror rose to mock him. The stranger glaring back had the chiseled face of a Marlboro Man’s younger brother and the body of a college athlete. Hidden away was a soothing voice, a good mind, a better smile. For years he had treated them all with casual pride. Now they fit like clothes borrowed from an intruder.

The door to the judge’s office opened, and the strong voice said, “All right. Both of you get in here.”

The office was a narrow jumble of boxes and books and piles of papers. Before Marcus was seated in a chair across from the judge’s desk, Gladys Nicols honed in on him. “You shouldn’t need me to tell you that proceeding without an attorney is like playing football without a helmet.” When Marcus did not respond, she snapped, “Are you paying attention to me, Mr. Glenwood?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“That’s good, because I detest wasting my breath. And I particularly resent such a disruption to my last day in this courtroom.” Judge Gladys Nicols had recently been elevated to the federal district bench, the first black female in the state’s history to ever achieve this status. Even those who loathed her sharp tongue and even sharper mind had
to agree that Judge Nicols was one of the most competent jurists in the state. And one of the toughest. “You’ve been around these courts long enough to know what happens to
pro se
litigants. Now am I right there?”

A
pro se
litigant was someone who insisted on representing himself at trial. Charlie Hayes, Marcus’ earliest mentor and former best friend, had once described a
pro se
litigant in divorce proceedings as a person who wanted to light a cigarette while sitting in a bathtub of kerosene. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Nicols turned her dark gun-barrel gaze onto Suzie Rikkers. “You have focused your questioning upon some highly emotional issues that are absolutely irrelevant to this divorce hearing.”

Suzie Rikkers did not back down. “Your Honor, if you will allow me to proceed to my intended conclusion, the facts will speak for themselves. Marcus Glenwood is a murderer. He deserves to roast in hell. Since we can’t arrange that, we will settle for everything he has.”

“I’ll tell you what the facts are,” Nicols lashed back. “Your client out there is rich as Croesus. She’s not after money. She’s after revenge. She wants to break this man out of spite.”

“That is her privilege, Your Honor. And he deserves it.”

“Not in my courtroom.” She pointed one bony finger at the door. “You get out there and tell your client she has two choices. The first is, I will put this case on indefinite hold until the wife herself appears before me.”

Suzie Rikkers showed unexpected dismay. “Your Honor, the former Mrs. Glenwood has granted her mother full power of attorney. She herself has been seriously injured through the actions of Mr. Glenwood. She is in no state—”

“Save it. I don’t care if this case freezes up until everybody involved is dead and gone, do you hear what I’m saying? Her alternative is to accept a proper settlement. Say, half of what Mr. Glenwood presently holds in liquid assets.” She glared across the paper-strewn desk. “Go out there and tell it to her like it is, Ms. Rikkers. You’ve got ten minutes.”

When Suzie Rikkers had stormed out and isolated them behind a slammed door, Gladys leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Marcus, Marcus, what on earth am I supposed to do with you?”

Because she was a friend, and because she had gone out on a limb to help, he was compelled to respond. “I had no choice. Appointing
counsel would only drag this out longer. My only hope was to let her do her worst and get it over with as swiftly as possible.”

Gladys Nicols reached for her phone. Up close it was possible to see the fine wrinkles marring her stern features and the feather strokes of silver in her tight black curls. She punched a number and said, “Bring me those New Zion papers, please.” She hung up, inspected him anew, and declared, “You were expecting me to stop her, weren’t you?”

“I’m not certain I understand.”

“Don’t you try your foolishness with me. This was all calculated and planned. You knew if Suzie Rikkers started in, with you sitting there all broken and defenseless, I’d have no choice but to pull her up short.”

He nodded. “I hoped you would.”

“And my last day on the local bench. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“They wanted me to have counsel. They wanted me to fight. They wanted to drag this out for weeks.” He took a hard breath and finished, “I couldn’t take her standing there asking me all the questions I’ve been asking myself every night for the past eighteen months.”

“That accident wasn’t your fault, Marcus. I’ve seen the police report. That truck came out of nowhere.”

“I couldn’t take days of cross,” he repeated, his voice hoarse from the strain of confessing. “My only hope was to agree to whatever she said and get it over with.”

“And risk losing everything in the process.”

Marcus responded to that by lifting his gaze and revealing to her the hollow core that had once contained his life.

One glance was enough to cause her to flinch and turn away. At the knock on her door, Judge Nicols responded with an almost grateful, “Come in.”

From behind Marcus, a younger woman’s voice announced, “The writ is complete, Judge.”

“Let me have it.” She slipped on her half-moon reading glasses. “Marcus, you know my chief clerk, Jenny Hail.”

Marcus raised his chin but not his gaze. He licked his lips, but no words came. His throat remained locked around the unspoken—that he had already lost all he had of any worth.

“All right, this looks in order.” Nicols reached for her pen and scratched busily. “Based on your argument and the formal appeal, I am hereby issuing a writ of mandamus against New Horizons.”

Marcus could only manage a weak, “Thank you.”

One of his new clients was a black church in Rocky Mount, his current home. The Church of New Zion had been founded with the first earnings of freed slaves. Their cemetery contained the memories of six generations, the same cemetery that now bordered property owned by New Horizons Incorporated, the world’s largest producer of sports shoes, sports fashion, and what their constant advertising called Teen Gear. New Horizons was also the largest employer in a six-county area. Currently they were building a new corporate headquarters on a hill overlooking the church. Well used to throwing its weight around, New Horizons found it objectionable that its boardroom would look down on acres of rainwashed graves. They had asked the local council to condemn the site and remove the tombs.

“As you requested, I am hereby instructing the county commission to respect the cemetery’s grandfather clause and allow the current use of the land to continue.” She settled the papers back into the folder and handed it over. “Go home, Marcus.”

“But we still haven’t heard if Rikkers and Carol’s mother will accept your terms.”

“I’ll handle those two. Go home.” She offered him a glance of shared sorrow. “Get some rest. Heal. Put this day behind you.”

T
HE AFTERNOON HEAT lacked August’s former fierceness as Marcus joined the frantic coastward rush, everyone desperate to eke out one final September beach weekend. The surrounding cars and SUVs were crammed with kids and luggage, toting surfboards and boats. Ahead of him, two young faces appeared in a minivan’s rear window. A boy and a girl waved at him. When Marcus did not respond, they crossed their eyes and mashed noses and tongues against the glass. Marcus watched them, unable to turn from the way fate and the two children mocked his hollow state.

He followed the minivan and the two clowning children to Rocky Mount, and they waved furiously when he took the exit. He drove into his sheltered corner of the world thinking of laughter and simple pleasures, and how easy it all had once seemed.

A pickup stuffed with ladders and tarpaulins and paint cans blocked his drive, so Marcus parked in the street. As he passed the grand magnolia anchoring the center of his lawn, a cardinal flitted by. Five tulip poplars did sentry duty down his property line, while an ancient dogwood and a towering sycamore sheltered the bay window of what would become his office. As Marcus climbed the front steps, he noted with vacant satisfaction that the honeysuckle was finally training itself up the garage trellis. A mockingbird sang to him across his wrap-around veranda, and the day enveloped him with the scent of magnolia blossoms and honeysuckle. On a better man, one who carried less guilt, the magic might even have worked.

He entered the Victorian manor built by his grandfather to a greeting of soft voices, sawdust, and fresh paint. Marcus crossed the domed foyer to the pair of rooms that ran the right-hand length of his
house. As soon as they were completed, the front room was to become a library–conference room, the other his office. Now they were draped in canvas and shone with wet paint.

A tall black man with a face furrowed as winter fields halted his painting and looked down from his ladder perch. “How are you doing?”