The Great Divide (35 page)

Friday morning came too soon, and on the drive into Raleigh and court Marcus found himself so worried he called Charlie at home. “I’m thinking I should have walked Klein through his testimony after all.”

“Who?”

“You know perfectly well who I mean. Hans Klein. The man from the Swiss embassy.”

“This is a good sign,” Charlie said, not bothering to hide his chortle. “Fretting over what you can’t change. Means you’re beginning to treat this like a real trial.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, son. But it don’t make this any less funny. You didn’t contact this Klein fellow because you didn’t want him to realize what you were planning. Which means you are legally covered for changing direction. Just because he sounded like an underdone kid to me on the phone don’t change matters one whit.”

Marcus found himself unable to let go that easily. “I’ve always treated this trial seriously, and you know it.”

“Maybe so.” Charlie’s merriment rang softly, like chimes covered and muffled by tangled vines of age. “But now you’re treating it like a case you just might win.”

“P
LAINTIFF CALLS
Hans Klein to the stand.”

The witness was everything Marcus had feared since Charlie described their conversation—young, eager, passionately energetic. Defense would have a field day. Marcus had no choice but to proceed.
“You are assistant commercial attaché at the Swiss embassy in Washington, D.C., are you not?”

“Yes sir.” At least the man’s English was good. Heavily accented, but very understandable. “For five years now. I go back to Bern in seven months. I wish I could stay. I like your country—”

Judge Nicols broke in. “Restrict yourself just to answering the questions, please.” But her gaze remained fastened upon the defense table, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Marcus understood perfectly, but refrained from turning around and staring yet again. He had noticed Logan’s appearance as well. The man looked positively gray, as though stricken by some ailment with a poor prognosis.

“Yes, judge, sorry.” Klein could not have been more than twenty-eight or-nine, and probably had never been in a courtroom before. Certainly not an American one. He repeated for Marcus, “I am here since five years.”

“And during that time, have you ever been involved in depositions requested by courts in this country involving witnesses residing in Switzerland?”

“Oh, yes, many times.”

“Can you tell the court how long such depositions take?”

“It depends. Sometimes many weeks, other times just days.”

“These often involve banking disputes, do they not?”

“Banking, companies, crimes, Holocaust victims, insurance issues, sometimes divorces and children.” He shrugged apologetically. “Many things.”

“All right.” Marcus decided he had trod that ground long enough. He lifted a page from his table, walked over, and handed it to the judge’s assistant. “Plaintiff requests this be submitted as newly discovered evidence.”

Judge Nicols accepted the paper from the recorder, asked, “Is this German?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Objection.”

Marcus took this as an excuse to turn and stare. Logan seemed to have difficulty rising from his table. His face held the sheen of a wax dummy as he went on, “Your Honor, no way should this have been sprung on us like this. No way.”

“It is newly discovered evidence,” Marcus repeated mildly. “It is
crucial that we determine its validity through the testimony of this witness.”

Nicols studied the document. “Do you know what this is?”

“I believe so, Your Honor.”

“And you are certain it pertains to this case?”

“If it is indeed what I think, absolutely, Your Honor. Without the slightest doubt. It is critical.”

“Very well. But I am warning you, Mr. Glenwood. If this is not as vital as you claim, I will come down very hard on you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus walked to the defense table, gave Logan a copy of the paper, and saw that up close the man looked even worse. He turned to the witness stand, where Hans Klein was watching the exchange with wide-eyed wonder. Marcus passed over a third copy and asked, “Could you please tell the court the nature of this document, Mr. Klein?”

It took the man only an instant to recognize and state, “These are Swiss articles of incorporation.”

“Objection!” Logan marshaled what powers he had left. “Your Honor, I move for a mistrial. For the second time in a row, the plaintiff has brought forward a surprise witness for one supposed purpose and then hit us with something else entirely.”

“This evidence could not possibly have been known at the time of filing these charges, Your Honor,” Marcus replied. But his gut was telling him that Logan knew. “As I said, it is newly discovered.”

“Your Honor, the days of the legal gunslinger are long gone.” But Logan’s protests rang hollow. “From the beginning, this entire case has not been about the truth. Let me remind you, Your Honor, this case is about the disappearance of a woman. What evidence has the plaintiff shown in this regard? None. What does this witness have to do with the case’s central issue? Nothing.”

Marcus cast a swift glance at the judge. She was watching Logan with that same small frown. Marcus gave a mental nod of agreement. During the past twenty-four hours, Logan had come to know what they were still seeking to discover. And it had rocked him to his very core.

“It is a sanctionable offense to bring forward a witness and elicit testimony that should have been disclosed to us beforehand,” Logan continued. “This deserves the severest punishment, Your Honor, because the plaintiff’s counsel has falsely manipulated the court.”

“Your request is denied,” Nicols said quietly.

“Then I move to have this evidence struck from the record.”

“Motion denied.”

“I then move for a mistrial on the basis that such ambushing evidence should never be permitted.”

“Overruled.”

“I request you issue limiting instructions to the jury.”

“Denied.” She waited a long moment. “Are you done? Very well. Proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus returned to the witness box. “Mr. Klein, you say this paper is an official governmental document?”

“Yes. The words at the top, they are the formal name of the Canton of Geneva.”

“Geneva,” Marcus repeated. “That is where the request for depositions of the New Horizons board members has been sent, is it not?”

“I am sorry, I don’t—”

“Never mind, Mr. Klein. Back to the document. Can you tell me what exactly it says?”

“Yes, of course.” He read swiftly and translated, “These photocopies are of the incorporation of a joint venture between New Horizons and a certain Factory 101—”

Logan had to pitch his voice to be heard over the rising swell of noise from the court observers. “Objection! Your Honor, the witness said it himself. These are not original documents!”

Marcus hefted further documents from his table and replied, “Request permission to approach the bench.”

“Very well.”

When Marcus was close enough to see the beaded sweat on Logan’s forehead, Logan hissed, “Interesting how you waited to this point to request confidentiality.”

“All right, enough. Go ahead, Mr. Glenwood.”

“Your Honor, these documents have been unearthed not in Switzerland but in Beijing.” He gave a verbatim recital of what Dee Gautam had scrawled in his cover note, and hoped the judge would not request further information, because he had none. “A quasi-governmental body exists there whose sole purpose is to extract special ‘foreign operating taxes’ from international ventures. That is why you see that strange stamp in the top-right corner.” He offered his
other documents. “I wish to offer these as further evidence, Your Honor. They are the corporate documents of the Swiss partner, a shell company established by New Horizons Incorporated just to hold this joint venture.”

“I object,” Logan said, but weakly. “This is further trial by ambush.”

“It has taken us this long to unearth these documents, Your Honor. As I said, it is all newly discovered evidence.”

“I am going to allow it,” Nicols said.

“Your Honor—”

She stopped Logan with one black-robed arm. “Proceed, Mr. Glenwood.”

Marcus returned to the witness stand and walked the witness carefully through all the documents, concluding with, “So what we have here are official documents lodged with the federal government in Bern. These documents state that a Swiss subsidiary of New Horizons is now the forty-nine-percent owner of Factory 101 in Guangzhou, China. The Chinese signatory, representing the controlling interest in the joint venture, is a certain Zhao Ren-Fan. And that payment for New Horizons’ share was made in the form of equipment and sales contracts.”

“Yes,” Hans Klein emphatically agreed. “All is stated exactly so.”

Marcus decided to risk one further question. “Can you tell the court why New Horizons would choose to go this route and incorporate in Switzerland rather than in the United States?”

“Objection. Requires conjecture on the part of the witness!”

“I submit this witness is an expert in this field, Your Honor,” Marcus responded, “and can reply from a wealth of experience.”

Judge Nicols leaned over her desk and asked the young man, “Do you fully understand the nature of this question?”

“Oh yes, judge.”

“Very well, you may respond. But only to the exact question.”

Marcus repeated, “Why would the company choose to incorporate in Switzerland?”

“Usually there are only two reasons,” the man replied brightly. “Because our taxes are very low and all corporate records are held as secret documents—they are not shared with anyone in the company’s home country, not even the tax authorities. Not by us, I mean. What they choose to do themselves is their business.”

“No further questions.” Marcus retreated from the witness and the one question he could not ask: How did the young man know Dee Gautam?

Logan gathered his forces and fought back. “Mr. Klein, what you have in front of you are photocopied documents, is that not correct?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen these documents before this morning?”

“No.”

“Can you guarantee their authenticity?”

“No, well, perhaps, but it is hard, you see—”

“Could these documents not be forged, Mr. Klein?”

“It is hardly likely, because—”

“Yes or no, Mr. Klein: Could these documents be forged?”

“Yes, of course, anything is possible.”

“Yes, of course, they
could
be forgeries.” Head down, Logan tracked his way toward the jury box, as though intent on ramming home the fact. “How much business background do you have, Mr. Klein?”

“I am a graduate of the Bern School of Diplomacy, a part of the University—”

“A diplomacy school. So you are a civil servant. A federal bureaucrat. With no actual experience in business whatsoever. Is that correct?”

The young man’s eager demeanor was swiftly fading. “I went straight from school into our foreign service.”

“Do you know anything whatsoever about New Horizons’ operations in North Carolina, Mr. Klein? Are you aware they employ four thousand people in this state, most of them in one of the poorest areas in the Southeast United States, and are in fact the largest employer in the region?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Are you aware of the charitable activities this company undertakes on behalf of young people playing organized sports nationwide?”

“I have seen their advertisements,” he responded lamely.

“Their advertisements. How nice. Is it not true, Mr. Klein, that all you really know about this company is this one document, shown to you by the plaintiff, possibly forged, given to you for whatever motive the plaintiff might have dreamed up?”

“I …Yes, I suppose—”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Logan wheeled about and stalked by Marcus’ table. As he passed he landed a single flaming glance, a swift warning shot across the bow. Marcus understood perfectly. Logan was bloodied, but far from beaten. This was only the first round.

Y
OU’VE MADE a total shambles of this from the beginning.” The silver-maned gentleman at the head of the table glared down at Randall. “Which I suppose should come as a surprise to no one present.”

“The cameras aren’t rolling, Sidney, and the press isn’t here.” Randall played at a nonchalance he did not feel. “You can stuff that censure back in your pocket.”

“Now look here!” Before being forced into retirement, the chairman of the China Trade Council had run a seventeen-billion-dollar corporation. He was used to people jumping when he barked. Randall’s slow drawl left him bilious. “I don’t take that from anybody, especially not some gun-for-hire, two-bit shyster like you!”

“Calm down, Sidney.” This from the deputy chairman, himself the former chief executive of a Fortune 50 company. “This is getting us nowhere in a hurry.”

The opulent suite of Washington offices would have better suited a private club than a firm of lobbyists. But this was no common lobbying group, and the men gathered here were not mere mortals. The table was ringed by nineteen retired executives, all white, all over sixty, whose retirement packages had all exceeded twenty-five million dollars.

The China Trade Council had started life as a quasi-official arm of the International Chamber of Commerce. It had soon come to the council’s attention, however, that it could operate far more effectively if it were independent. And secretive. Its chieftans included the top executives of over three dozen of the largest corporations in the
United States. Membership in the council cost them 250,000 dollars per year. The board itself was selected on the basis of contacts within the current administration. Members of the council’s board accompanied the President on trade missions, attended top-level Commerce Department strategy sessions, represented American industry before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, slept in the Lincoln bedroom. As far as Randall Walker was concerned, these men had held power for so long it had rusted along with their brains.